


Liar Liar

by kitsunerei88



Series: Revolutionary Arc [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Tortall - Tamora Pierce
Genre: Character Development, F/M, Fanfiction of Fanfiction, Gen, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Torture, Introspection, Rigelverse, The Pureblood Pretense, The Rigel Black Chronicles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-02
Updated: 2019-02-02
Packaged: 2019-10-21 00:52:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 170,581
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17632973
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kitsunerei88/pseuds/kitsunerei88
Summary: [Fanfiction of murkybluematter's The Rigel Black Chronicles] Some people are not all that they seem to be. Rigel Black is not, and neither is Aldon Rosier. [AU post-Ambiguous Artifice]





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [The Pureblood Pretense](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/39096) by murkybluematter. 



 

_My name is Aldon Rosier, and I am not a pureblood._

The words rolled around in head, a heavy stone weight rocking to the beat of the Hogwarts Express. He and Edmund had almost managed to secure their own cabin this year, kicking out the noisome second-year Ravenclaws who had been in the carriage before. Though, the way he thought of it, it wasn’t really kicking out, considering they had left of their own volition when he and Ed sat down. 

He said _almost_ , because of course Alice had managed to squeeze her way into the carriage with them not an hour later. She was a fifth year, a newly anointed Prefect, the badge still shiny on her left breast.

“Alice,” Ed said, rising to greet her. Things had been a little… off about him, recently, when it came to Alice. They had been friends forever, yes, and that hadn’t changed – but something was different. A little more formal.

His guess was that Ed was discovering new feelings for her, and was doing what he could to express them. The thought was interesting, and frankly? Not his concern.

_My name is Aldon Rosier, and I am not a pureblood._

“Aldon, you’ve been quiet this summer.” Alice turned to greet him, offering her hand to him casually. He took it and bowed over it automatically. A customary greeting of purebloods; it was so easy to continue acting as one, even if he wasn’t one. He looked her over carefully, if subtly, but she wore no signs of her difficult summer. “We haven’t seen you since the Malfoy summer party – it’s not like you.”

Just having my entire world turned upside down, he thought about saying, but instead said, “Sorry. I was lost in some theory on the nature of wild magic as opposed to natural magic, and on the original taming of magic.”

Alice smiled, reassured, though Ed cocked an eyebrow at him. Aldon smiled in reply, a private smile, one asking that they simply leave it at that. Ed looked at him, his brown eyes serious, but Aldon knew he understood because he turned to Alice and distracted her with talk of something or another. Aldon leaned back against the worn cushions and stared out the windows. It was raining, not unusual for England, and the fat globes of water clung to the glass windows.

It was half-true, what he said, even if he said it largely to stop his friends from asking him further about it – and as a half-lie, his magic only twitched slightly.

He was looking into magical theory, for very personal reasons, summarized: since late May, his magic had started speaking to him. Or rather, not _speaking_ , but telling him things – telling him about lies. When someone lied to him or around him, it …  itched. Just a little bit, not enough to truly bother him, but certainly enough that it would not be ignored. And that was odd.

His magic always had been a little strange. It was always a little more active than Ed’s, a little more wild than Alice’s. It had never bothered him, not really, it was just a thing that was. But since his thirteenth birthday in late May – not that he realized that it was happening, what was happening, at that time – it had been stronger, and, he realized, now he knew when people lied to him.

He had been walking into his Transfiguration theoretical exam, the first time it happened. It was his birthday, and he was feeling a little top-heavy with the overnight increase in his core size, and he overheard one of the Gryffindors, bragging about something or other. It was so inconsequential that he didn’t even remember what the lie had been about – was it about Quidditch? Summer holidays? Exams? But his core had _itched_ , for the first time, and the sensation was so novel that he had staggered and put out a hand to steady himself on the stone corridor wall. And, immediately, he had known that whatever the Gryffindor said was a _lie_.

“All right, Aldon?” Ed had asked, reaching a hand out to catch him.

The sensation was gone, as fast as it had appeared, and Aldon had shaken his head uncertainly. “I think so,” he had said, his voice weaker than he was accustomed to, but he had taken a deep breath and continued. “Thirteenth birthday, and all.

Ed had nodded, understanding, and left the matter alone.

Having a gift, well, that was fine. Fantastic, even. Not all wizards were so fortunate to have a gift, and there were all sorts of customs and traditions for gifted wizards. He quite liked the fact that he had a gift, and on top of it all, it was incredibly useful. He loved knowing when people were lying to him.

But there would be no ceremonial customs or traditions for him, because no one could know he had the gift of truth. The truth-gift was rare – and, more importantly, it had only ever been recorded as being a _halfblood_ gift. At first, he hadn’t thought this was of any concern, because what pureblood would have openly revealed such a helpful gift to any but his closest friends? But then he read further into the theory behind his gift, and realized that it could not be so simple.

The quiet hum of Ed and Alice’s conversation swirled around him, but he ignored it, focusing on the rain outside. It was well-established that the magic of Muggleborns was different than that of purebloods. Some, like his parents (like _him_ a few months ago) would have said it was inferior. Muggleborns were, for the most part, magically weaker than purebloods, though some three in twenty were ridiculously overpowered; this was a good thing, because Muggleborns also famously had less control over their magic and the less that they had to control, the better. Or so went the pureblood dogma.

Muggleborns were, for the most part, magically weaker, and that was about as far as the pureblood dogma could, _objectively speaking,_ be supported by research – particularly by the most renowned magical theorists internationally. The official line was, of course, that international research was tainted by liberal bias, but even research by the touted SOW Party experts didn’t go much farther. Muggleborns _were_ usually magically weaker.

Control was another question. The accepted theory of the SOW Party was that Muggleborns had less control over their magic – that was partly why Hogwarts had shut them out so early. Muggleborns posed a _risk_ to the other students, particularly the powerful ones, because they did not have generations of breeding for control in their bloodlines. They simply could not control their magic, and they were volatile. But the accepted consensus internationally was not that their _control_ was weaker, it was that their magic was _harder to control_.

Their magic was wilder, more connected to the wild magic from which all wizarding magic had sprung. Some theorists (whom he happened to think were too idealistic and prone to wild speculation) argued that Muggleborn magic was _newly tamed_ ; that the magic was wild magic that liked a child so much that it chose to come to them, to turn them into a witch or wizard. But as newly tamed wild magic, it still chose to act out in ways that a pureblood’s magic never would, and which made it more difficult for a witch or wizard – any witch or wizard – to control. But because it was wild, it didn’t always obey the commonly accepted rules, and there were certain gifts that could only be bestowed on a person whose magic still had that wildness.

The truth-gift was one of them, and that meant that Aldon’s magic still had some of that new wildness – and that meant that he had a Muggleborn parent or grandparent. At best, he would be what was considered “pureblooded-by-definition”, which would not be _so_ bad if it were not for the fact that the Rosiers were a part of the Scared Twenty-Eight and had historically shunned the many Families that were pureblooded-by-definition. At worst, he was not a pureblood at all. And, more pressingly, since he knew for the _fact_ that his parents and his grandparents were each from families named in the Sacred Twenty-Eight, he also now strongly suspected that he was not the child of his parents.

He could think about this with relative calm now, but three months ago… well, he had not taken it quite so calmly then. Initially, he simply hadn’t accepted it. He read the research thoroughly, searching for the research that would support the simple conclusion that while no purebloods had _admitted_ to having the gift of truth, they had nonetheless existed, which would make this problem all go away. For at least a month, he searched and read, and searched and read, looking for a sign, no matter how slight, that there was a pureblood before him who had had the gift.

There was nothing. Not even a suggestion that a Lord or Lady might be a little _too_ prescient, a little _too_ accurate, have a little _too much_ knowledge that they shouldn’t have had. And given the bloody nature of much of wizarding history, it was the sort of thing that, had anyone found anything to suggest it, it would have been used. So, instead, he turned to research on the nature of magic itself, looking for anything, theoretically, that would support the conclusion a pureblood could have the gift at all.

And there was nothing. Rather, that was how he learned that Muggleborn magic was wilder than pureblood magic, and that the truth-gift was one of those gifts that needed a certain amount of wildness to manifest. He looked for alternate theories, but those, including the ones touted by the SOW Party, were simply _unconvincing_. There were contradictions in the research methodology or theories, or their conclusions didn’t connect to the experiment that had actually been done. It didn’t help that test subjects were so rare – Britain simply didn’t have that many halfbloods or Muggleborns anymore, or at least few that would publicly identify as such. The few British papers that conducted research into the nature of halfblood or Muggleborn magic were largely case studies, whereas international researchers in America and Australia had large sample sizes, and their conclusions on the wild nature of Muggleborn magic were, well… indisputable.

And there was, too, his new learned experience. It was _true_ that his magic had always been a bit more playful than Ed’s, than Alice’s. It was _true_ that he had had a harder time learning to control it. And it was _true_ that, inexplicably, it was telling him when people lied to him, and that was a gift that was both rare and had never been identified in a pureblood.

As a Slytherin, and as one with this _particular_ gift, Aldon could hardly help but make a few simple inquiries to establish whether one could be a pureblood and still have this gift. Since there was no question that his grandparents were pureblooded, if his biological lineage was correct, then… well, then in all probability, his gift would just be an aberration, which was not good, but which was better than the alternative. He could start by questioning his parents.

The perfect opportunity had presented itself not two weeks after his initial thought, with a letter from Ed. He had taken from the owl without thought over breakfast with his mother, since it wasn’t exactly unusual for them to exchange frequent, if short, correspondence over the summer break.

_Aldon,_

_I am sorry to write with poor tidings, but Alice’s sister passed away late last night. The funeral is to be this upcoming Friday – I am sure Alice would appreciate if you came._

_Edmund_

“Oh,” he murmured thoughtfully, putting the letter down. His mother looked over the table at him, the question in her grey eyes – it was unusual for him to say anything when reading one of Ed’s letters, of course she noticed something was amiss.

“The Selwyns lost their younger daughter,” he replied, handing the letter to her. “The funeral will be on Friday.”

“I see,” she replied, her tone simply resigned. She set her empty plate primly to one side. “It was not unforeseen, but still very sad. The poor girl – it is for the best that she is no longer suffering, though. We ought to go to support the Selwyns. I will let your father know.”

In retrospect, it was callous of him to seize on the opportunity, it really was. On the other hand, when else would he get an opportunity to ask her these crucial questions?

He had no regrets.

“Mother,” he started in reply, carefully putting just the right amount of hesitancy in his voice. “Did you and Father ever consider having another child after me?”

His mother looked at him, and Aldon arranged his expression carefully – it was one part caution, hesitation, and two parts the purest curiosity. He erased any sign that he might have any sort of ulterior motive with this question, and focused all of his thought into appearing _simply curious_ about the matter.

“Are you saying you wanted a sibling, Aldon?” his mother asked, finally. She set her _Daily Prophet_ down.

“No, no,” he replied hastily, putting in the effort to be reassuring. “Not that I would have minded a sibling, I’m happy without one; I’m just curious. It seems to be such a risk with the Fade, it seems we are attending these funerals every year. Why do some families still try? Why do some families not try? Are families purposely avoiding having a second child to avoid the Fade? Did you want another child after me?”

His magic vibrated, and he told it that of _course_ what he said was a lie, that was sort of the _point_ , he was trying to get answers without _seeming_ to get answers. His mother examined him again, and he adjusted his expression slightly to add a level of hope.

“Well…” his mother said. “You know, my pregnancy with you was very difficult.”

_Lie._

“And after we had you, we just decided, well, since my first pregnancy was so difficult, we wouldn’t try again.”

_Still a lie._

He didn’t have enough information.

“How was it difficult?” He put on an expression of soft confusion, concern. “I never heard it was so before, and wizarding pregnancies are not normally difficult.”

“Well,” his mother said, “I was bedridden for most of it. I didn’t leave the house for nearly the entire nine months.”

_Lie. True._

“My blood pressure was exceptionally high, and I am allergic to one of the ingredients in the healing potion to bring it down.”

_Lie_. _Lie._

“So, after you, your father and I decided that we should not try for another, but for other reasons than the Fade.”

_True_. Odd.

“Thank you, Mother,” Aldon said, smiling gracefully and adding a dash of gratefulness. “I understand.”

She had not had a difficult pregnancy with him. She had not been bedridden – she had not had incurably high blood pressure. But it was _true_ that she didn’t leave the house for nearly nine months, and that was very odd. Even stranger, _since my pregnancy with you was so difficult, we decided not to try again”_ read entirely as a lie, but “ _after you, your father and I decided that we should not try for another_ ” read as true.

In retrospect, it was so obvious that he was embarrassed that it had taken him two days to realize what the truths and the lies had in common, though perhaps he could be excused as he hadn’t had much experience with his gift, yet. All the lies related to her pregnancy with him. It was clear that she didn’t have a difficult pregnancy, but if that was the case, there would have been no reason why she would have avoided Society during her pregnancy, no reason why she didn’t leave the house for nine months. The explanation that made sense was that she was _simply never pregnant_ with him. But if they were to say that he was her child, she would have needed time away from society to bear out the lie that she had ever been pregnant at all. It wasn’t perfect – but the theory was extremely compelling.

From there, it was just details – and honestly, who cared that much about the details? He had enough evidence, now, to strongly suspect that he was not a pureblood, that he was not the child of his parents. If he _had_ to guess, he would guess that he was his father’s bastard; he simply carried too many of the Rosier traits to be anything but a Rosier.

So here he sat, a probable halfblood of some sort, Heir to the House of Rosier, on the train to Hogwarts for his third year. But he had the impeccable credentials of a pureblood, and no one would question them. He was lucky, really; as long as no one found out about his gift, no one would ever need to know. It was so simple. So easy.

“Anything bothering you, Aldon?” Ed’s slow voice broke into his thoughts. He looked up – Alice had fallen asleep against Ed’s shoulder, and he looked distinctly pleased.

Aldon gave a slow half-smile back at his best friend – his brother, really, in everything but blood. But everything in Society came back to blood.

“No,” he said, “nothing.”

His magic itched.

XXX

Third year was about learning, about experimentation. With his gift and a dogged dedication to analysis, he learned far more about people than anyone ever thought he did. Both about people _generally,_ and about the people that he called his friends, his acquaintances, and his enemies.

The first thing he needed to do, of course, was establish the limits of his gift. He knew that people lied – and people lied _all_ the bloody time. His magic vibrated, itched, constantly, a perpetual murmur against his core. After his summer at home, when he had been comparatively isolated, at first the onslaught of knowledge had been completely overwhelming; he had had to shut the valve and ignore his gift entirely in crowds. Slowly, though, first in the Slytherin common room, then in the classrooms, then in the Great Hall and the corridors, he turned on his gift, focused and tuned it, worked out what worked and what didn’t. He quickly learned that whether something read as a _lie_ was not necessarily related to whether it was objectively true, but it was more of a measure of whether the speaker knew that it was a lie. In some ways, he thought his gift was a narrow, focused form of Natural Legilimency, but instead of reading the surface of others’ thoughts, it measured the depth of their belief in relation to what they said. As long as the speaker _believed,_ truly and deeply _believed_ , his statement to be true, his gift would read it as true.

The sole exception to this was, of course, lies of omission. He wasn’t entirely sure why that was – lies of omission did cause his gift to react, a slight twitch enough to be noticed, but nothing too alarming, even if the substance of what was said was true. He theorized that this was because the speaker knew that he was lying by omission, or that what was said wasn’t strictly true, which bolstered the theory that his gift wasn’t reading for objective truth, just for the other person’s belief on the truth value of a statement. Surprisingly, it was Ed that provided most of the ground for this theory; Ed lied surprisingly often, but almost exclusively by means of lies by omission or half-truths, which Aldon was able to identify largely because he knew Ed so well.

He wondered what would happen if a person was lying to themselves, but it took him three months to find a likely test target and experiment. The sort of things people lied to themselves about naturally tended to be sensitive, not the kind of thing that Aldon could easily go and approach someone about. But exams, he thought, would be the easiest test to determine whether his gift could pick up when someone lied to themselves – around both winter and spring exams, he carefully placed himself in crowded rooms and listened to other students talking about the exams. He was listening for the falsely confident – those students whose academic records were middling, not stellar, but who appeared to be confident. These would be the ones most likely to be lying, either to themselves or others, about their preparedness, about whether they had studied enough or whether they would do well.

His results were…. inconclusive. It seemed that at least some of the time, it did identify people lying to themselves as liars, but other times, it didn’t. Then again, it was possible that not all of them were, indeed, falsely confident. Some of them may have been perfectly happy with how they were doing, and therefore confident in their ability to meet the standard set for themselves, some of them may have been lying to themselves about their likelihood of success, some might have been outright lying to others, and others may have genuinely been prepared and therefore actually telling the truth. He gave it up as a bad job, but guessed that, if anything, his gift was under-sensitive to these kinds of lies rather than oversensitive. In other words, if his gift identified it as a lie, then it was a lie; but depending on the depth to which the person was lying to themselves, it would likely miss some cases.

Full lies, where the person knew they were lying and were doing it anyway, were the easiest for Aldon to identify. They made his magic vibrate, in thorny spikes that, even if it didn’t hurt, could be extremely uncomfortable. But even these kinds of lies fell into different types; white lies made his magic itch, but that sensation was a wave rather than a spike, a magical grumble from his core that was easily identified and ignored. He could feel, if he paid close attention, when a person regretted their lie – there would be a soft underbelly to the thorny vibration, so subtle that sometimes, he would swear that he had missed it. It was easier to tell when someone was lying and blatantly did not care, because the itch would be cold and would send shivers through his core.

Aldon learned, too, the most common motivations for lying. People were not particularly unique in why they lied, he discovered. White lies were told mostly because people were polite and didn’t want to hurt others’ feelings. A disturbingly large number of lies, as far as he could tell, were told for purely for egoistical purposes; people were always seeking to portray themselves in a certain light, and nearly everyone was flexible with the truth in at least some circumstances. There were, too, a good number of lies that he couldn’t work out the motivations for, and he filed away interesting pieces of information, here and there, for consideration in the context of more pieces in a bigger puzzle.

With a slowly developing mastery over his gift, it was logical that it was turned first on the ones he was closest to, his friends.

Ed lied nearly exclusively though half-truths or lies by omission. Part of it, he thought, was just Ed’s reserved and silent nature; he simply didn’t care enough to correct people on their assumptions. But Aldon thought his friend had a calculating edge to his personality, too, that he purposely allowed people to underestimate him. It was refreshing, especially when most people tried to puff themselves up.

Alice, by contrast, was surprisingly honest. She rarely told white lies or half-truths, and when she lied, she did it blatantly with few regrets. He thought that this reflected her abrasive and no-nonsense personality; Alice cared less what people thought of her, and she had the confidence to carry it off.

Another surprise was Marcus Flint. For a person who was unnecessarily harsh, both to his team and to his Housemates in general, Marcus’ lies often felt softer and tinged with regret, which led Aldon to suspect that his Housemate’s bark was much worse than his bite. Aldon filed that fact away for further use at another time – it was always good to have identified a person’s weakness, even if it was a friend. With his secrets, he could hardly do otherwise.

By the end of the year, his gift had become a sixth sense – a continuous stream of information that he and his magic could consider and discard or analyze as required. Pureblood common sense dictated that magic was not sentient, that it could not learn, but after third year, Aldon would have to disagree. It seemed to him that, with practice, his magic could filter out the noise sufficiently for him to consider the most interesting bits later.

But with so much information, for each of the puzzles he was able to piece together, there were dozens upon dozens of tidbits of information that he had no context for and that he could not pull together into anything useful. For many of his acquaintances, their lying patterns were simply too average for him to draw any conclusions. Most people lied a certain amount, and they used a wide range of techniques, and frankly? It was too much information for him to process regularly. So he discarded large swathes of information, particularly white lies, because for the most part it simply wasn’t useful. He tucked away the unusual bits, the things that popped out at him as distinctly odd, and let the rest flow away.

In a way, knowing when people were lying, knowing that other people, too, were liars, made his life easier. So he was a liar – so were his friends, so was the world. So maybe the lie of his life went a little deeper. So what?  

He supposed the difference was that blood status tied into political status. Even if he didn’t _think_ the blood identity theft laws would apply to his situation, the discovery that he was not a pureblood would still shut him out of Society, still disadvantage him socially, no matter his talents. Just consider Professor Snape: a halfblood, widely acknowledged as the best Potions Master in Britain, with the respect of both Lords Riddle and Dumbledore, with respectable connections, and yet, he was still excluded from the clubs, the meetings where deals were made, alliances were struck, and no pureblood would ever see him as an eligible match for marriage.

It was not an attractive life.

XXX

The day Pansy introduced Aldon to Rigel Black, his gift sat up and listened.

 Pansy had been a bit of surprise to his gift. He never realized just how often his younger friend lied, but most of her lies were white lies, and in a way, that was understandable. Pansy was very kind, and the kind of things she lied about were typically the polite, conversational things that were the backbone of pureblooded Society.  She said she was pleased to meet someone, even if she wasn’t, and she flattered people even if she might have thought differently.

At first glance, Rigel Black didn’t look like anything special. His hair was artfully tousled and fell around his forehead and ears in carefully arranged curls, his eyes a moody grey. He was dressed in a dark grey robe, so dark it was almost black, in a light material – linen, perhaps? His shoes were a pointed light grey, a perfect counterbalance to his eyes. He was sitting with Pansy and Draco Malfoy, a cousin with whom Aldon had a passing acquaintanceship, but sat closest to the empty chairs meant for him and Ed. Not being protected, then, but still supported by his friends.

But Aldon’s magic was growling softly. Something was wrong – someone was lying. It was not a feeling he had gotten before, the low buzz, constant in the background. It felt like a cross between the twitching sensation of a half-lie, and the thorny vibrations of the full lie, with a feathered edge. It was entirely strange, and he didn’t know _why_.

All three of the first years stood up when he and Ed approached. Aldon studied them each in turn. Focusing his gift first on Pansy, his gift quieted. That was a relief; he would have hated to think that there was something that wrong with her. Malfoy, too, was clear. But when he focused his gift on Black, his magic buzzed again, softly.

Black hadn’t even said anything. Whatever the lie was, it was somewhere in how he appeared, and Black must know that his appearance was a lie. Did that even make sense? He would need to do some research – quietly, of course.

“Mr. Rookwood, Mr. Rosier, how good of you to join us. You have met Mr. Malfoy, I believe?” As always, Pansy was the consummate host, but she injected so much fondness into her voice that it was easy to believe her words. With his gift, though, he could tell that Pansy _was_ pleased to see them. He nodded politely to Malfoy, who nodded back.

“Then, may I introduce my classmate, Rigel Black? Rigel, this is Aldon Rosier and Edmund Rookwood.”

Aldon stepped forward as Black did, meeting the boy’s moody grey eyes as their hands met in a firm handshake. Black met his gaze calmly, if a little stiffly, and his hands were rougher than Aldon would have expected of a boy his age. His gift was buzzing. Was it the touch? The posture? The stare?

“How do you do, Mr. Black?” he asked politely.

“Very well, thank you,” he replied, nodding to Ed, his face composed in polite interest, and there was a punch to his magic. A half-truth, but not that odd; it would be polite to say he was doing well even if he wasn’t, and that was fine.

Pansy sat down, followed by Malfoy and he and Ed. Black was the last to sit, though he could have (should have) sat earlier. The rules of propriety stated that the hosts sat first, followed by the guests; the whole of Pansy’s party should have sat before he and Ed did. But the briefest pause, a moment and a glance, showed that Black wasn’t going to sit until he and Ed did. Was it a sign of ignorance, which would make sense, given the current Lord Black’s political leanings? Or was it a lack of trust?

Even when sitting, Black was abnormally stiff. He kept his left hand hidden on his left side, rather than leaving both hands open and visible in his lap as would be polite. Aldon rested his hand close to his wand pocket, close enough to snag it in the event of a situation, but kept to an open and casual pose that wouldn’t reveal his caution. It would slow his reaction time, but it couldn’t be helped.

“I’m so pleased you found time in your schedules to sit down with me today,” Pansy said, opening the conversation. “It has been absolute ages since we saw each other last, and I’m sure you’re both quite busy now that term is picking up.”

It was an outright lie, but Aldon hid a smile. The stifling etiquette of formal pureblood conversation, such as for formal introductions, were strict, the conversation ritualized. He could carry off these ritualized conversations in his sleep, and he turned instead to studying Black with an intensity that he intended to be discomforting. He was searching for any sign, any hint of the mysterious secret that he knew Black was hiding. There was nothing – other than the uncomfortable buzzing whenever he looked at the boy, there was no hint, no sign that anything was amiss. He picked up a lie, here or there, noting that when Black lied, the background buzz would be overlaid with the other sensation, fleeting as it was. It was good to know that at least he was still able to pick up when Black lied, even if Black set his gift off just by being present.

Black ignored his heavy stare entirely. And wasn’t that odd, in and of itself? With this kind of focus, Black should have noticed. Black should have been shifting uncomfortably under his gaze, and yet, Black ignored him, asking questions instead about their career paths. It was only when Malfoy, smirking, dropped Black’s future career plans into the conversation that Aldon turned his attention back to the conversation itself.

“Oh?” Aldon asked, his voice velvet-soft. “What will you do when you graduate, then?”

“I hope to pursue a Potions Mastery,” Black replied coolly, steadfast under Aldon’s gaze.

“You’ve chosen a challenging subject to pursue,” Ed said mildly, though Aldon could hear the interest lying just underneath. “The Potions Mastery is rumoured to be the most difficult to obtain.”

“Rigel is up to the challenge,” Malfoy said confidently, and it was true.

“A glowing endorsement,” he murmured in reply, leaning back. Black was blushing, slightly – was it embarrassment from Malfoy’s words, or just discomfort and embarrassment about being examined so closely?

“But remarkably apt,” Pansy added. “Professor Snape has already begin giving Rigel extra tutelage.”

It was true, and Aldon shot Ed a look. He had never told Ed about his gift – he had never told anyone about his gift – but he had strongly implied to Ed that he had good intuition and Ed had simply accepted it as that. Though, really, if Ed had any suspicions, he would certainly keep them quiet until he had any firm evidence. Aldon was lucky that his gift was not one of the well-known ones, but it was a risk. Any time he used the incredibly useful knowledge he picked up was a bit of a risk.

“Professor Snape is good friends with my father,” Aldon said slowly, turning back to the group of first-years. “He does not share his talents lightly.”

“It isn’t nearly as exciting as it sounds,” Black replied, half-lying. “At the moment, Professor Snape just assigns me a lot of extra work.” That was true.

“That sounds like Professor Snape,” he agreed.

“Still, that you have gained his notice at all is quite impressive,” Ed noted, letting a hint of his interest shine through. “And that you have done so this quickly … Well, you must have nursed this ambition for some time before coming to Hogwarts.”

“Long-term ambition would certainly go a long way toward explaining your presence here in Slytherin,” Aldon added, watching Black’s face for a reaction. Black’s face remained politely composed, unnaturally so. Too composed; to be natural, he needed a little more animation, glimmers here and there of other expressions or feelings.

“I wasn’t aware that it needed explaining,” Black replied, deliberately obtuse, and Aldon’s magic spiked with the lie.

“Weren’t you?” Aldon smiled, showing his teeth, and Black shifted ever so slightly in discomfort. “Many, many people are curious about you, Mr. Black. They want to know on which side of the wand you will fall.”

“If I do land on one side or another, rest assured it will be because I jumped,” Black replied, again unnaturally cool, and Aldon’s magic shifted uncomfortably. He thought it was a lie, though a soft one – perhaps Black didn’t believe it to be true? Or had he already picked a side? Aldon couldn’t be sure. He should be defensive, even if slightly so, and Aldon studied him again.

Black was decidedly odd. Aside from the constant, low-level buzz whenever Aldon looked at him, there wasn’t anything _specific_ that Aldon didn’t like, there weren’t any lies that especially stood out. He had told a half-lie when he said he was doing very well, but that wasn’t out of the ordinary. He hadn’t strictly obeyed the rules of etiquette, staying standing until the guest party sat and hiding his left hand. It was possible that he never learned the appropriate etiquette, but after their banter, Aldon somehow didn’t think that was the case. Black was just too well put together, too controlled, and too polite, by pureblooded norms, throughout the rest of the conversation that it would be unusual for him not to know the basics. It would be like running but not knowing how to walk. The other odd thing, Black’s comments about being in Slytherin and what side he would be on, well … The first lie, that he wasn’t aware that his presence needed explaining, was easy, because it was obvious that he knew it needed explaining. The second…

Was it that Black planned on remaining neutral and picking no side at all? Hopelessly idealistic, if that was the case, and surely Black knew from his family situation the impossibility of doing so. Perhaps other families, less important ones, could be Neutral; the Blacks could not. Or was it had he already picked a side? No, that wouldn’t make sense either, not with the words _rest assured it will be because I jumped_. Was it that he had had a side picked for him? If so, why couldn’t he, as he stated, _jump_ to the other side?

And there was his gift – buzzing in the background whenever he looked at Black.

“I like this one, Pansy,” Aldon said, his voice silk, after a long pause.

“Yes, do bring him around more often,” Ed agreed, and they nodded to Malfoy, each bowed over Pansy’s proffered hand, and took their leave. Aldon excused himself to the library, citing a Magical Theory essay as an excuse. 

XXX

Aldon already knew most of the books he would need to consult, having read them thoroughly when he first discovered his gift. He was looking for the first-hand records of the witches and wizards before him with the truth-gift. Most of the first-hand accounts had dried up after about the fifteenth century, when wizards began withdrawing from the Muggle world, and there were no accounts after the enactment of the Statute of Secrecy. This had been a source of endless trouble for him researching last year, searching for a pureblood’s account, but this time, he didn’t care. He was looking for anything that might account for what he had just experienced: something that made his magic buzz, but without anything being said.

It was less than an hour before he found an account that seemed to work, one by a Lady Jane Dalmore, halfblood (and noble) witch of the late thirteenth century. She had had, by her own account, a particularly strong truth-gift. She was, unusually, not alone with her gift, as both of her sisters had also been gifted, but neither as strong as hers, apparently. All three of the witches had been used by the reigning monarchy as living lie-detectors, and left written accounts documenting their experiences.

_The King found Lord Malfoy his private study, examining his personal scrolls. He was surprised, as it was most unlike Lord Malfoy to do so, and called for me. The Queen gave me leave to attend him, and I found his Majesty holding his Lordship at swordpoint, with Sir Avery having his wand trained on the man, bound already with the Incarcerous spell. When I saw him, I knew immediately something was amiss. My Gift vibrated violently, and I felt sick to even look at him. “He is lying,” I cried, though I did not know why. Not even ten minutes later, the Polyjuice wore off and another wizard, considerably smaller than Lord Malfoy, slipped free of the binds, spat out a phrase in the harsh Celtic tongue, and fled free. Sir Avery gave chase, though I heard later from her Majesty that the wizard was never found. His Majesty asked that we attend her Majesty more attentively, in caution for his campaign in Wales._

Vibration certainly matched the buzzing, and he didn’t feel sick. There were two possible explanations, he thought. First, his gift could simply be weaker than Lady Jane Dalmore’s had been, and therefore his slight buzz could be the same as her violent vibrations. However, he somehow didn’t think that was the case. There was no way that a first-year at Hogwarts was able to continually use Polyjuice without being caught within the first week. Black shared a room with Malfoy, and he needed to sleep – the potion would inevitably wear off while he slept, and certainly Malfoy would have caught him. Moreover, many classes were more than an hour long, and students were not permitted to carry drinks into class.

The second option was that perhaps Black was wearing a glamour of some other sort, not as strong as the Polyjuice Potion. This, Aldon thought, was more believable and likely. There were many kinds of glamours, which could also be tied to an object of some sort, preventing the need for Black to renew the spell periodically.

The question was, what was he hiding? It could be benign, like a scar or something, or it could be something more. Tied together with some of the boy’s more puzzling actions, well, Aldon wanted to know more. Rather, he _needed_ to know more.

“I don’t trust him, Ed,” Aldon announced that afternoon, finding Ed poring over the latest creature sample from Alice in their shared dorm room. “Or, not yet.”

“Who?” Ed looked up, mildly curious.

“Black.”

“Ah. You don’t trust anyone, Aldon,” Ed replied, turning his attention back to the creature parts. He pointed his wand at the sample – some feathers of some kind. Aldon didn’t particularly care about the game, but Ed loved it. “ _Reparifarge_.”

“That’s true,” Aldon conceded, sitting down and leaning back on his four-poster. He chose his words carefully. Ed didn’t know about his gift, and it was best for everyone if it stayed that way. As far as Aldon knew, Ed didn’t even suspect. The good thing about truth-gifts was that, being a rare halfblooded gift without many contemporary accounts, he didn’t think most noble purebloods had ever heard of it. He wouldn’t, if he didn’t have it. “But think about it; Black doesn’t make any sense. His etiquette was wrong – he sat after we did, he was hiding his left hand. But the rest of the conversation was normal, which is strange, you can’t say he didn’t know the etiquette, he just didn’t follow it. He was unnaturally stiff, too, throughout the entire meeting. He should have relaxed at some point, even if it was slight, but he was on high alert the entire time. And his reaction when I said that people wanted to know where he would fall politically didn’t feel right, either.”

“Is that really enough?” Ed replied, considering the feathers. They were still feathers, which meant that this time, Alice hadn’t transfigured them into anything else. “I don’t think it would be unusual for Black to be nervous, meeting upper years. Meeting the Heirs to the Rosier and Rookwood families would, I think, be especially stressful.”

“Does it really need to be enough?” Aldon countered. “I think there is something suspicious about him, and Pansy is close friends with him already. As her older friends, we have a duty, don’t we, to protect her? We should test him.”

Ed looked up from the feathers he was so intent on, giving Aldon a long, considering, look. Aldon felt a thrill of fear – had he said too much? He didn’t _think_ he had, but Ed was more perceptive than he let on, and he rarely said anything until he felt he had enough evidence to act on it.

Theirs was a strange friendship, now, Aldon reflected. He genuinely liked Ed – they were brothers in everything except blood. But blood prevailed, and being a probable halfblood, he could never be certain of anything. And so, it was also Aldon’s job to keep Ed from getting enough evidence to point to anything in particular about his gift.

“If you’re so inclined, Aldon, I’m not opposed,” Ed said finally. “You hardly need to go to such lengths to convince me.” 

XXX

The letter was short and sweet: _Be at Greenhouse Four by sundown, or everyone will know your secret_. Aldon had done all the preparations already, finding a likely cluster of Canterberries and spelling the trees around it to be magic-proof. It was a simple task, because the point of the task wasn’t the task itself. This was really an opportunity for he and Ed to see Black’s personality, to test his reaction.

Black showed up, just as planned. Of course he did; he had a secret. Everyone had secrets, but if he was wearing a glamour, then his secret would be larger than most, and people could always be counted on to show up to protect their secrets. He smiled as he stepped out of the shadows; Ed was on the other side, as they had agreed earlier.

“Well, well, what do we have here? He really came.” Aldon said, injecting his voice with the slightest hint of surprise. It wouldn’t do for Ed to know that he was not surprised in the slightest.

“Looks like you were right,” Ed replied, appearing from the darkness on Black’s other side. “He did have something to hide.”

Black turned around to face him, grey eyes flashing in the twilight, and Aldon’s magic buzzed.

“Welcome, little secret-keeper.” Aldon smiled, a sharp grin showing his teeth. “It seems I had reason to suspect you, after all. Come, won’t you tell us what secrets you hold so dear that you willingly endanger yourself for them?”

Black stumbled backwards, right into Ed’s solid form, and there was a flash of annoyance and alarm in his previously calm face before he lifted his chin up stubbornly.  Aldon laughed – he couldn’t help it. He loved provoking reactions like that, and Black’s expression now, moving, was far more entertaining than their stilted introduction. “No? A shame. But, ultimately we did not come here to learn your secrets, petty though they undoubtedly are.”

It was a potshot, one that Aldon didn’t think would work. It might have worked on a hot-headed Gryffindor, attacking his ego, but Black _was_ a Slytherin, so a veiled taunt at the importance of his lies wouldn’t be enough to make him divulge them. Maybe enough to make him twitch a little.

“What is it you want, then?” Black snapped, his voice hoarse, no twitch of annoyance. Well, that was interesting; Aldon leaned back, intrigued. Unless he was wrong, Black was panicked.

“We don’t trust you,” Ed broke in.

“That’s right,” Aldon added, drawing the words out in a sing-song cadence. The plan was working – this was, frankly, giving him a much better grasp of Black’s personality than their formal introduction. “Pansy vouches for you, but as much as we adore that girl, she is young, and innocent enough to be easily misled. By coming here, you have shown us that you keep secrets, even from Pansy and Malfoy – or they would be here with you. For that, you can’t be trusted.”

Black’s face stayed resolutely blank – and Aldon’s gift still buzzed, staring at him.

“And those who cannot be trusted,” Ed said lowly, in his darkest growl, “must be tested.”

Black’s expression changed again, from blank to bewildered. “Tested?” He asked, almost skeptical.

“Yes, tested!” Aldon replied, letting his smile expand into a wild, crazed grin. “If we are to approve of your friendship with Pansy, you must be worthy in some way, and since it’s obvious that you aren’t _trustworthy_ , we’ll just have to see if you’re another kind of worthy.

Black didn’t try to defend himself. Was it that even _he_ didn’t think he was trustworthy – or was it that he didn’t see the point in arguing about it? Another piece of information for Aldon to tuck away, putting it into a small bin that he now labelled _Rigel Black_ , along with the incessant buzz and his comment about his political stance.

“It was very brave of you to come out here alone to face an unknown enemy,” Ed said, the tone in his voice considering.

“Either that, or very cowardly. Were you _terribly_ afraid that we’d spill your precious secrets?” Aldon needled, looking for a reaction, however slight. “Shall we find out which it is?”

Black’s lips pursed, slightly, involuntarily, before smoothing out again.

“Don’t look so scared, little snake. We just want to see if you’re worthy of your House, that’s all. Just run a little errand for us, and you’ll be on your way.”

“What kind of errand?” Black asked, relaxing already, a note of relief colouring his voice. Interesting. Whatever the secrets were, it was big enough that, apparently, he didn’t need to know what the errand or task was before feeling relieved. It was a secret worth a lot to him, then.

“The kind that tests your resourcefulness, of course,” Aldon replied, still grinning. “You really can’t be a Slytherin without Slytherin’s qualities. Of course, if you don’t want to do it, all you have to do is agree to break off your friendship with Pansy; if you won’t be around her, we don’t care how unworthy you are.”

“No,” Black replied, voice strident. “Pansy’s my friend, and if you knew her half as well as you think, you’d know that Pansy doesn’t let anyone decide her life for her, and she definitely wouldn’t appreciate this kind of manoeuvring around her back.”

It was true.

Aldon exchanged a look with Ed, who shrugged slightly. “Yes, that’s true,” Ed said. “But what Pansy doesn’t know won’t get us into trouble with her. _You_ won’t be telling her.”

“If you’re sure that Pansy is worth all this trouble…” Aldon poked, again. Black had secrets – he had shown as much showing up here, and there was that pesky buzzing in his magic. But Black truly regarded Pansy as a friend, which meant that he would be disinclined to hurt her, which was all Ed really cared about, so…

“She is,” Black replied, scowling, and it was true. Aldon exchanged another look with Ed, who was now smiling in approval. Damn. He turned back to the boy, already planning his next step.

“Wonderful,” he said, clapping his hands together theatrically and pasting the wild smile back on his face. “Then here is your task.”

“You will acquire two sprigs of fresh Canterberry and bring it back here. You have two hours,” Ed announced.

Black gaped at them.

“Go,” Aldon said, laughing. It was, admittedly, a forced laugh, but it wasn’t so hard given the boy’s expression. “You had better get started, and be glad it’s not a full moon tonight.”

Black huffed a sigh, failing to hide the roll of his eyes, and turned and jogged towards the Forbidden Forest. Aldon exchanged a glance with Ed, slightly surprised that the boy had already known where to get the berries, but then, if he had aspirations of being a potioneer, he would know his ingredients. Ed shook his head, a silent signal that they could discuss it later, and cast a Disillusionment Charm on himself, trotting after Black with surprising silence.  Aldon cast both Disillusionment and Silencing Charms on himself, and followed after.

Black seemed to have a good handle on the problem, heading along the edge of the Forbidden Forest until he found a stream, and following it upstream until he found the clutch of Canterberry trees that Aldon knew would be likeliest ones found. He didn’t pull out his wand to try any cutting spells or the like; he immediately reached for a vine and started to braid himself a rope, using his teeth to get the braid tight. Barely a quarter-hour later, Black was using his makeshift rope to climb the trees one-handed and pick the required Canterberries. Odd, that he was climbing one-handed, though it was his left hand, again, that was hidden. Perhaps the glamour was to hide an injury with that hand?

When Black had jumped down from the tree, Canterberries in hand, using his rope to break his fall slightly, Aldon thought it was high time for them to reveal themselves.

“Quite pleased with himself, isn’t it? Little popinjay.”

Black whirled around, audibly groaning when he saw Aldon and Ed dropping their Disillusionment Charms.

“I’d say he’s earned himself some self-satisfaction,” Ed shrugged. “He certainly made quick work of our task.”

“Yes,” Aldon replied, drawing out that one syllable out into a long note in his disappointment. “It seems our two-hour time limit didn’t give Mr. Black enough credit. And he even retrieved them manually right off – I was so looking forward to him try to sever a branch or summon one of them with those magic resistant spells I cast on most of the trees in this place…”

Black frowned at them. “You’ve been watching this whole time?”

“Don’t beat yourself up over it,” Ed replied kindly. “We used muffling spells and were always out of your line of vision, so even if we hadn’t been invisible, I doubt you would have spotted us.”

Black sighed, scowling, and dropped the Canterberries. “Well, I got these ridiculous berries. I doubt either of you really want to make bunion cream, which is about all these are good for, so do I really have to haul them all the way back to the greenhouses?”

“No, no,” Aldon replied, eyeing Black carefully while waving a hand dismissively. Black’s left hand hung at his side. He didn’t see a glimmer of a glamour hovering around it, but then again, some glamours were very well made. Focusing gift on the left hand, his magic was, if anything, quieter. He took a few steps closer to Black and leaned down to look into the boy’s grey eyes, and his magic returned to buzzing. “The berries don’t matter. What is important is that you completed your mission and showed resourcefulness. You pass, feel free to befriend Pansy, et cetera. Now, what I _really_ want to know, is _why_ you tried to climb the tree one-handed?”

_What I really want to know is what you’re lying about,_ he added internally, but that wasn’t something he could say aloud. Black might have secrets, but Ed liked him already. He couldn’t push any farther without tipping his hand with his gift, and anyway, it didn’t look like it would affect Pansy. Still, Aldon would keep watch, collecting information where it came, and one day it would form a picture he could use.

One thing he had learned with his gift was the art of biding his time and picking his battles.

“His left hand is injured. Likely broken,” Ed answered. Black scowled, but his expression dissipated into a pained yelp when Aldon grabbed his left hand, revealing the soiled bandage under the boy’s sleeve.

“Hmm, the wrist does appear to be fractured, at least,” he said, and allowed a cat’s grin to spread across his face. “Why on earth are you walking around with an injured wrist in a school with a certified Mediwitch on staff?”

“My reasons are my own,” Black retorted, but Aldon already knew the answer. Whatever Black was hiding, it was something that a Mediwitch would pick up on. Black was hiding something about his physical appearance – but it was not an injury, and it was probably not a minor scar, because these would not stop him from going to a Mediwitch when injured. It was something about his appearance, and something fundamental. What sort of appearance issue would he hide that was serious enough that he couldn’t seek medical attention?

He would think about it later.

“It looks like we found a secret, after all, Edmund,” Aldon said, rejoining the conversation with only the slightest of pauses.

“I guess making him complete the task was unnecessary, then,” Ed replied, his tone unconcerned.

“Indeed, he has turned out to be trustworthy after all.”

Black’s jaw dropped. “Now having secrets makes me trustworthy?” he demanded, grey eyes sparking slightly in outrage. He didn’t deny having secrets – probably wise of him.

Aldon tsked. “Think like a Slytherin once in a while, won’t you? Us _knowing_ one of your secrets makes you trustworthy, because a person can always be trusted to protect their secrets. Everyone has secrets, and a person we know has secrets is always less dangerous than a person who appears to have none.”

“If you say so, Rosier,” Black signed, shaking the berries out of his robes and folding them neatly under one arm. “If our business is concluded, I would like to get back before my friends miss me.”

“Oh, our business is far from completed,” Aldon replied, flashing a shark’s grin. He would figure out Black’s secrets, one day – even if it wasn’t today. What appearance-related thing was Black hiding that was so serious he couldn’t go to the Hospital Wing? One more piece to put into his box labelled _Rigel Black._ “But we’ll be happy to walk you back to the castle now – it wouldn’t do to let Pansy’s new friend get lost in the woods, now, would it? But first – Edmund, would you mind?”

Ed stepped forward, drawing his wand, and grabbing Black as he tried to retreat. One would think the boy didn’t want to be healed, the way he was behaving, Aldon thought critically. Black flinched as Ed pulled his left arm into view, though Ed was really doing it rather gently, all things told. Since Ed had his hands full holding Black still, Aldon stepped forward to unwrap the soiled bandages, blocking Black’s half-hearted attempt to defend himself.

The break was obvious, but clean, at least. The wrist did look normal, more or less – there was limited swelling and discolouration, though it obviously pained Black when they handled it. “Hmm. I’d actually expected worse.”

“The bone has already been set, it just wasn’t healed,” Ed commented, poking at the injury with his wand. “How long ago was it broken?”

Black eyed the two of them suspiciously, as was proper – Aldon couldn’t help but smile, a soft, genuine one. “I broke it the first Saturday of term.”

“How?”

“Fell down some stairs.” Black shrugged uncomfortably, and Aldon’s gift noted the half-truth. He likely had fallen down some stairs, else it would have come up as a full lie, but there was something Black wasn’t telling them about the incident. Ed frowned at him, and Black elaborated. “The strap of my bag twisted around my wrist and probably caught against something when I fell, so it was pulled taut until it snapped.”

Ed nodded, comparing her story with the pattern of the break, and Aldon winced sympathetically, probing for more detail. “That must have hurt. I suppose you passed out?”

Black grimaced and nodded.

“I thought so – if you were awake when it happened, the scream would have brought someone running, and you would have been shipped off to the Hospital Wing. Still don’t see why you didn’t go there anyway, but I’m _sure_ I’ll figure it out eventually.”

There was a silence, and Black didn’t take the opening. Aldon didn’t expect him to – if his glamour-spell secret was important enough that he put up with the pain of walking around with two weeks with a broken wrist instead of going to the Hospital Wing, then a casual opening from an upper-year wouldn’t sway him. Aldon had some respect for that; there were certainly secrets he would do the same to keep.

Ed pointed his wand at Black’s wrist, beginning a complicated spell, and Black flinched involuntarily, twitching his arm away.

“Don’t worry,” Aldon interrupted, steadying him with a hand on his shoulder. “Edmund’s uncle, the one who doesn’t work on the creature reserve is a resident at St. Mungo’s. If he accidentally vanishes all of your bones or something, his uncle will probably fix you up for free.”

Ed shot him a dark look, which Aldon reciprocated with a wicked smile, but he turned back to mending Black’s wrist. The spells wouldn’t take more than a few moments. “Don’t listen to Aldon’s nonsense, Black. I mend animals at the shelter my family runs all the time. Take a deep breath and hold still; you’ll have to be careful to build up strength in it again, but the muscle won’t have atrophied much over the past few weeks. I wouldn’t recommend climbing any trees for a few days, though.”

Black took his hand back, rotating his newly healed wrist with almost a sense of wonder. “Thank you very much.” He even meant it.

“It was no trouble.”

Aldon looked over Black again with his gift, but the annoying buzzing sensation in his magic continued. Whatever Black was lying about, it wasn’t his arm – as obvious now, that wasn’t what the glamour-spell concealed. But he would find out the source, eventually. It was just a matter of time – attention, and time.

“Secrets aren’t that interesting once you know about them, anyway. Now that this one is gone, I’ll just have to find out another one of your secrets before I can trust you.” He winked playfully at Black. “I’m sure I will. Sooner or later.”

_Preferably sooner_. 

XXX

“Did that allay your concerns, Aldon?” Ed asked him, later that night. Aldon looked up from his Arithmancy textbook, his bed strewn with calculations. Ed’s eyes were dark, impenetrable.

“Hmm?”

“With Black.”

“Oh,” Aldon sat up, shifting his weight to stretch his back out a little. He really ought to have done this at one of the study tables or a study room, but they had all been taken earlier. He took a moment to reflect on Ed’s question.

Did the test allay his concerns? It did, and yet, it didn’t in the slightest. Black still wore some sort of glamour – whatever they found that night didn’t fix that issue. Whatever he was hiding, it was significant enough that he would rather walk around with a broken wrist, which had to have been painful, for more than a week rather than go to the Hospital Wing. That wasn’t just weird, that was _alarmingly_ weird. It didn’t necessarily _need_ to be connected to his glamour, but then again, it was as good a theory as any. Did Black have some sort of medical condition that he was hiding? And, of course, when directly questioned about it, Black’s answer was short and stark. _My reasons are my own_ , he said.

But Black was _honest_ , as far as Aldon could tell, when questioned about Pansy. He genuinely liked their young friend, and he was willing to go to lengths to protect that friendship. Ed already liked him. And there was something so charmingly _entertaining_ about Black, too – as much as Aldon didn’t trust him, as much as Aldon _knew_ he was hiding something important, he couldn’t help but like him a little too. Black was stubborn, infuriating, entertaining, intriguing. He lied, and Aldon wanted to know exactly what that lie was.

And there was that little problem, too, where Aldon couldn’t explain his continued suspicion and fascination. He didn’t have any good reason to believe Black was wearing a glamour, or to know that Black lied about some of his answers. The only thing he had, now, were the possible reasons why Black would avoid the Hospital Wing, and was that something that he could legitimately use as a reason for further investigation, further testing? It was _weird_ , to be sure, but Ed had gotten involved in this test largely because of a potential threat to Pansy, and for no other reason – while he might find Black _strange_ , it wasn’t really a justification for any continued action.

“I suppose so,” Aldon said, finally, letting a genuine smile creep across his face. “Thank you for coming along with me, Ed.”

“Any time,” Ed rumbled, turning back to his book. “But I wish you would trust me with the truth about your _intuition_ , Aldon.”

Aldon’s smile froze, even as a heavy silence cloaked the room. 

XXX

He waited for weeks, breath bated, for the hammer to fall. None did. Seemingly, whatever Ed worked out, he wasn’t following up on it; the very next day, it seemed that the comment was forgotten. They went to classes, they did their homework, they sat and Alice joined them and they talked about normal, everyday things, and not once did Ed refer to Aldon’s _intuition_. Aldon didn’t dare to hope that it was because _Ed_ had forgotten, but, after weeks on weeks, he started to relax.

Maybe he hadn’t figured it out entirely. Maybe not that much had changed – Ed had always had his suspicions, since the first days of the truth-gift, and Aldon of all people should know that Ed understood far more than he let on. Maybe he hadn’t figured it out entirely, maybe he didn’t have enough evidence. Maybe Aldon could continue as he did, working to make sure that Ed _never_ got the evidence that he needed.

Maybe, until then, they could still be brothers.

Instead, Aldon distracted himself, and Black’s secrets were an eminently good target. Obviously, his secret was related to his appearance somehow, and it was important enough that he needed to avoid Healers. Did Black have a serious medical condition that he couldn’t let Madam Pomfrey know? If so, was it a weakness of House of Black? It being the _House of Black_ , he wondered if it was the famed Black madness, but madness wouldn’t need to be concealed with a glamour – and, anyway, the Blacks were _famously_ unstable, so that would hardly be a secret…

But Black didn’t seem to have a hint of the madness. He was really rather _boring_ , all things considered. He went to classes and did his homework. When he was in the common room, he was most often in the presence of both Pansy and Malfoy. He read books – some related to his schoolwork, and others not. Most of his reading had to do with potions; there were potions journals and potions textbooks, the sort that Aldon guessed were never covered in class. The most interesting thing was that he sometimes lied about where he went and what he did, but then again, _everyone_ did at some point. He’d asked Pansy about it, but she had simply shrugged and said that sometimes, her new friend Rigel liked to be alone. It was something to file away, but he didn’t have enough information to make anything of it anyway.

Someone tried to kill the boy over Halloween. Aldon first thought that perhaps it was related to Black’s secrets, but before he could make much headway on that theory, it came out that it was only Lee Jordan, murderously upset about the Marauder prank product line. Aldon could not say that he understood the temptation; anyone who watched Black should have known that he displayed no interest in his family’s business whatsoever. Even if he did, a proper risk-benefit analysis would have revealed that attempted maiming or murder, particularly _at school_ , was too risky for very little reward. It was an idiot’s move.

The best thing that could be said about discovering that Lee Jordan was attempting to maim and kill Black was that, as stupid as it was, Aldon had the opportunity to see how Black would react. And in that reaction, Aldon learned two things that he wondered about: first, Black was powerful. Second, Black’s magic wasn’t entirely controlled; when attacked by Jordan, it had thrown him across the room with enough force to break bones, then released Black from the Incarcerous spell and reverse-transfigured the ropes into the original wheat.

His mind gravitated automatically to an entirely biased and speculative thought: what if Black wasn’t a pureblood either? That wouldn’t explain the power, but it would explain some of the more interesting points of his accidental magic. Accidental magic throwing someone across the room if attacked? That was par for the course, classic. But freeing Black, who didn’t have wand in hand, and reverse-transfiguring the rope went beyond that. Only _wild_ magic would take the initiative to act in such a fashion – and only Muggleborns and halfbloods had wild magic.

And if Black wasn’t a pureblood, well, was it possible that he was hiding some clearly non-pureblooded characteristics? Or, even, non-Black characteristics?

Mentally, he slapped himself. He was thinking this because he _wanted_ it to be true, not because that was what the evidence suggested. Yes, Black’s magic showed some characteristics of potentially being wild, _new_ , but only if it had freed Black and reverse-transfigured the rope of its own volition. But Black was powerful – and even if Aldon hadn’t _seen_ a wand in his hand didn’t mean that he wasn’t directing it, at least to some extent. And even if not, reverse-transfiguring something to its basic elements was a basic transfiguration technique, and, stretch or not, it was conceivable that it fell under accidental magic. It was just too speculative to say that he, too, wasn’t a pureblood.

The glamour that Black wore? It was _possible_ that Black was hiding something like a non-pureblooded trait or his very identity. But it was far more _likely_ that Black was hiding some sort of non-flattering characteristic which could not be revealed even to Madam Pomfrey – serious disfigurement? Scarring? A chronic illness? It had to be something that would reveal the weaknesses in the House of Black or at least in the Heir to the House of Black, but that could be any range of things. It _wasn’t_ that Black hated Healers – when he had spat that out as an explanation, it was a lie. Still, that left too many possibilities.

The biggest problem with the not-a-pureblood theory was simple: if he wasn’t a pureblood, why was he even at Hogwarts? Unlike the Rosiers, where pureblooded status was valued, it was clear that Lord Sirius Black simply did not care about blood politics. The current Black family Head was _famous_ for having betrayed his immediate and extended family by positioning himself with Light politics. He had ended relationships with his brother, his cousins – many of whom he was previously close with. His closest friends were Lord James Potter, Head of the Potter House, historically Light-leaning, and Remus Lupin, halfblood and known werewolf. Aldon had heard, too, that the Potter Heiress was very close in age to the Black Heir, but was attending school abroad; since their families were close, Black and the Potter Heiress would probably have grown up together, and if Black wasn’t pureblooded, it would have made eminent sense for them to go to school together. If Black wasn’t a pureblood, he wouldn’t be at Hogwarts.

It was that simple. 

XXX

Aldon couldn’t say that he _enjoyed_ the Christmas holidays. Certainly, he had loved them when he was younger, more naïve, innocent. Even his first year, second year, he looked forward to the holidays.

He didn’t, anymore. Since his gift, he felt too strongly the lies that his mother, his father told. Things had not changed, on the outside, at least – he still ate breakfast with his mother every day, ate dinner with his parents every night. But something had changed, and the oppressive blanket of secrets lay heavily on the Rosier Manor. He felt every lie, each one a needle in his core.

Why did it matter so much more when it was family who lied? _People_ lied, and he knew this better than anyone. It wasn’t even that his parents didn’t love him, because with his gift he could feel the truth of his parents’ love. Neither of his parents were demonstrative, and theirs had never been a family for physical affection. But their care was in their actions; it lay in the fact that Mother always ensured that Aldon’s favourites were on the breakfast table, in the fine coffees and teas that they both enjoyed, in the careful and thought-out gifts (plural!) that she and Father got him every year for Christmas. It was in the fine clothes and tailored robes Mother always ensured he had, and it was in his nearly limitless school account that Father permitted him to order books with without question, it was in his absurd monthly allowance. It was in their genuine pleasure and thanks at the gifts that he got for them for Christmas.

He should let it go. So what if he wasn’t their child by blood; they loved him, and even with this secret lying between them, he loved them too, on some level that he wasn’t sure he was able to verbalize. It shouldn’t matter that he was probably a byblow, or perhaps adopted from a distant, non-pureblooded branch of the family. It shouldn’t matter, because in all the ways that should matter, he was their son.

But it did matter, because blood-status was one of those things that one was born with. Adoption into a pureblooded family did not cure a person’s blood status, just like it did not change a person’s appearance or the genetics they were born with. If Aldon was a halfblood, he was a halfblood – with all the rights and privileges that came with it. And, meanwhile, Father and Mother were complicit in the very regime that stripped him and people like him of those very rights and privileges.

Aldon didn’t lie to himself. If it wasn’t for his gift, he _wouldn’t_ care, even if he had found out the secret. He would have pretended to be a pureblood his whole life, because who could tell, really? He had a perfect background. He would have gone on, the perfect pureblood Society Heir, the future Lord Rosier and, if he played his cards right, a high-ranking political position in the SOW Party. And now?

He could still have that life. It would even be easier with the information he gleaned from his gift, and a there was a certain part of him that still wanted it. It was _fun_ being the Rosier Heir, and he had been raised from birth to become Lord Rosier. To some extent, he had even looked forward to running the Rosier Investment Trust: negotiating with the other major business families, the Zabinis and the Lestranges, reviewing the newest products from private development companies, deciding what was worth investment and what wasn’t, lobbying the Ministry of Magic, hobnobbing with the day’s best, brightest, most influential.

But with his gift, now, the risks of being found out were simply too high. He couldn’t _not_ use the information he obtained. His gift was too much a part of him, too much a stream of information that he just _knew_. And once he knew the truth behind the lie, he couldn’t just forget it, and it was frankly much harder to remember what he was supposed to know and what he wasn’t than just remembering the facts he gleaned. Hiding the true nature of his gift from his friends, who were inclined not to look too hard, was not the same as hiding it from political rivals or enemies, who would take every advantage to get ahead. It would only be a matter of time before a rival narrowed down on the true nature of his gift – and the resultant, inevitable, ugly conclusion.

Then would come the scandal, the fall from grace: _Lord Rosier, prominent SOW Party member, revealed as halfblood_ would likely be the kindest. _Hypocrite_ would probably be thrown around with abandon. It would become harder and harder to do business with blood status hardliners, and he would find himself excluded from many of the most important, most ground-breaking meetings. If he married, which was expected, his spouse would probably leave him in the fray. It was even more difficult because he didn’t know his biological parents; if he did, there would be a point where his children would be pureblooded-by-definition, but he couldn’t even make that guarantee to his children.

It was not a pleasant future, and the annual New Year’s Gala was a window to that future. Aldon had no interest in attending.

And yet, on New Year’s Eve, he found himself wearing plush formal robes, in a dark shade of blue and trimmed in gold, hovering on the edge of the Selwyn ballroom. He was one of the youngest attendees; while there was no rule on the age of the attendees and it was up to each family to decide whether their Heirs were of age to would attend, normally Heirs didn’t attend until they were at least fourteen or fifteen. He should feel honoured that his parents felt him mature enough to attend, but instead, he just felt tense, annoyed.

Alice would, of course, be here. But as the daughter of the hosts, she was caught in the reception line, politely curtseying at each Family representative that arrived. The New Year’s Gala was formally a SOW Party fundraising event, but was informally the Society event of the season, meaning that _every_ Dark and Neutral Family, no matter how prominent, would be in attendance. She wouldn’t be leaving the reception line anytime soon, and afterwards, he very much suspected that she would be tied up in other formalities for the rest of the evening. She was sixteen years old, now; old enough that her parents were seriously considering her prospects, and old enough that other families were considering _her_ as a prospect as well.

Ed, too, would be around somewhere, but he didn’t seriously think that Ed would be beside him, tonight. Ed was not what anyone would call sociable, but with Alice drawing so much attention tonight, he would be insistent on hovering at her side. Aldon sighed, a mix of boredom, annoyance, and jealousy – not at their relationship itself, he had no interest in Alice, who was a second-cousin to him in any case, and Ed was clearly not attracted to other men – but it was nice that Ed already had such a clear idea of where he wanted his life to go. He had had that once, too.

He grabbed a slender flute of fairy wine from one of the passing house-elves, nodding to the small creature, wearing a tea towel stamped with the Selwyn crest, in acknowledgement. She frowned at him, only slightly, likely because of his age, but curtseyed to him and left the matter alone. Thank god, because Aldon could tell that he would need a _drink_ to get through the night. Looking over the large room, he couldn’t spot any other friends, but then, Pucey and Bole came from more conservative families and were probably not allowed to attend. Flint was old enough, but knowing Flint, had likely flat-out refused. He had made minor courtesies already to the elders he was supposed to acknowledge, and clearly none of them were interested in conversing at length with a fourteen-year-old, so he was free for the evening. Free to die of boredom, anyway.

He turned and walked on the outskirts of the grand Selwyn ballroom, eyeing the décor with caution and slight distaste. The Selwyns were old nobility, but not wealthy, and it showed. The ballroom was supposed to be grand – there was a sweeping staircase at the far end of the room, and heavy burgundy velvet drapes hung in the corners of the room, held up with thick golden rope. Stopping in one corner and delicately touching the rope, he identified it as silk. The portraits lining one side of the grand ballroom were held in gold gilt frames, their occupants pacing their frames and studying the Gala with muttering interest. But there were tired, worn edges to the room. The details on the trim and portrait frames were a little grimy, as if no one got up to clean it very well, there were fewer house-elves than a household of this size ought to have, and the velvet drapes were faded in some sections, a paler burgundy rather than the vibrant colour it obviously once was. The Selwyns weren’t wealthy, and that meant it was all the more important that Alice made a good match for herself.

The Rookwoods were not noble. They didn’t have the history, but they had the money, and sometimes money was all that mattered. The Selwyns would be foolish not to accept Ed’s suit, for all that he was two years younger than Alice and nowhere near of age to be making an offer for her hand. Still, if he was clear on his intentions tonight, and if Alice showed a clear preference for him, her parents might put off other offers until he came of age. That was what Ed was no doubt banking on, so Aldon didn’t expect to see him very much, if at all, throughout the night.

Ugh. He took a deep sip from the fairy wine flute, rolling the thick liquor around in his mouth. It was good – heavy, strong, and there was a scent of sweetness that he liked. It tasted like honey and lavender, with a hint of some other wildflower that he couldn’t identify. Hell, fairy wine was expensive. The Selwyns must have used a fair amount of their savings hosting the Gala this year, keeping up appearances and satisfying their pride.

It wasn’t that he didn’t understand the situation, or that he didn’t understand that arranged marriages were ingrained into Society. It was a duty of Heirs to marry someone of the appropriate class, and to continue the Family line. It was never something that appealed to him, but it was simple, blunt, fact. He didn’t have to like it – it just was. But it rubbed him the wrong way, making his skin itch in a way not unlike the feeling of his magic rippling under the weight of the thousand lies being told around him.

He found a small table, set out of the way near the base of the grand staircase, and hovered over it, drink in hand. It was a good place; he was hidden enough that he wouldn’t draw anyone’s attention, but similarly didn’t appear to be purposely hiding from the crowds. It was also a good place to eavesdrop on various conversations, always an enjoyable pastime.

“Have you been making a list?” He heard one of the older Society matrons ask. That was Lady Rourke, unless he missed his guess – a minor noble house, reasonably well off, pureblooded-by-definition, but not prominent. “In case the legislation goes through.”

“Of course,” the other woman sniffed. He stared at her awhile, but couldn’t place her exactly. Her accent leaned Scottish, though. Lady McLaggen, perhaps? “There aren’t very many pureblooded girls in this generation, so if the legislation passes, it will open up some opportunities.”

“The trouble is, we hardly know any halfblooded families,” Lady Rourke replied, tone contemplative. “There’s a Black girl, I think – Nymphadora? And the Potter girl. Both are halfblooded, but since their parents are magic-users, our grandchildren would be pureblooded by definition.”

Aldon turned away from that conversation, his lip curling a little in distaste. Pureblooded women discussing the marriage prospects of their children. The Potter girl, even half-blooded, would be a catch; the Potters were noble, socially prominent, if Light, and wealthy. The Black girl though, for all of her connections though her mother to the historic Black family, wouldn’t be; her mother worked for the Wizarding Wireless, her father at the International Confederation of Wizards embassy, but nothing extraordinary. He took another long draw from his fairy wine flute and turned his attention elsewhere.

Professor Quirrell, of all people, was in a hushed conversation with Lord Flint, who was staring into his glass of fairy wine with an expression of distaste. “I th-think you’ll s-s-see, Flint, once th-the new legislation is-is passed, how beneficial it will be for the P-P-Party.”

Lord Flint grunted, and drained his flute in one long swallow. “Can’t see how a _marriage law_ will be helpful. And who would want to marry the bloody halfbloods anyway? Who cares if they get full rights if they marry a pureblood? They’re still halfbloods. I didn’t think that most of them came back after going to school abroad anyway.”

Aldon learned casually forward, slightly towards them, focusing both his hearing and his gift on them. Nothing had triggered so far – whatever they said, they at least believed it to be true. New legislation?

“But th-that’s the b-beauty of it, isn’t it?” Professor Quirrell replied eagerly, leaning forward. Lord Flint leaned backwards, away from him. “It also p-p-prevents half-bloods from m-marrying M-mudbloods. B-brings everything b-b-back to th-the p-pureblooded families. K-keeps the lesser-blooded from d-d-developing a p-power b-base.”

Lord Flint grunted again, discomfited. “I suppose. If it passes.” Aldon felt the half-lie pass through his core, marking Lord Flint’s skepticism.

Professor Quirrell smiled – a proud smile, one that Aldon was sure he thought was winning but was instead unnerving. “D-don’t worry on th-that front. Th-things can ch-ch-change q-quickly.”

Aldon turned back to his glass of wine and polished it off. He would need another, but he also needed more information on this supposed law. 

XXX

It was a long two hours of hovering, and he was on his third glass of wine, before Ed caught up to him. He was drunk, and he knew it – not drunk enough to be completely out of control, just enough to be a little uninhibited with his friends and to test the boundaries. Alice was nowhere near; he guessed, though a pleasant fog, that Ed has exhausted the appropriate number of dances on her dance card and that she had been obligated to share her attentions elsewhere.

“Ed!” Aldon threw his arms around his friend dramatically. Could he control himself on this amount of alcohol? Of course. If he ran into his parents, he would have to give good Rosier Heir, right? But he also liked the fact that since he was drunk, he was to a certain degree less _accountable_ for his actions, and he could be as demonstrable with his affection with certain close persons as he damn well liked. Like Ed. He liked Ed. Ed was probably his favourite person in the world. “How is the game?”

Ed extricated himself from Aldon’s grasp, holding him at a distance. “I don’t know what you mean. I see that you have been helping yourself to the drinks. How many has it been?”

His voice was all Ed – all calm, and soothing, and cool. “Three? Four? The fairy wine is good,” he replied cheerfully. “All the better to learn about the exciting new legislation that the Party is planning on passing.”

Ed grunted, a small sound of interest, and pulled Aldon off to a darkened side of the ballroom, out of the way. “New legislation?”

“The new legislation mandating holy matrimony between halfbloods and purebloods, I mean,” Aldon whispered, leaning into Ed’s ear and leaning on his shoulder. He wondered if he perhaps enjoyed _playing_ drunk about as much as he enjoyed drinking. “The one that requires halfbloods to marry purebloods. How exciting. Think of how many more opportunities will be available for us!”

Ed frowned, thinking it over. Aldon pulled back and studied his face. Ed was very good-looking, in a gruff, stoic, way. It was odd that he never noticed it earlier, but Ed lacked most of the delicate features shared by purebloods – his nose was broad, squat, and his jaw was square rather than pointed, the effect only emphasized by his close-cut hair. His shoulders were broad, his form stocky rather than lean. It was ironic that, of the two of them, Aldon was the one whose blood purity was questionable. Then again, the Rosiers were in the Sacred Twenty-Eight, that class of families whose blood status had never been questioned, whereas the Rookwoods had only been considered pureblooded for the last two generations.

It was just too bad that Ed wasn’t interested in men, Aldon sighed regretfully, not for the first time. He had been fascinated with the other boy since they had first met, at barely five years old. His affection had only grown since then, even though Aldon knew Ed would never be interested in him that way. It didn’t bother him, really – it was so apparent from when they were younger that he had never expected anything to come of his mild interest. Ed was his best friend, and his friendship was something that Aldon would never trade for anything.

“We ought to tell Black,” Ed said, finally. “If it passes, it will affect his family more than if affects ours. I will keep my ears open for more information.”

There was not a hint of judgement on his voice, and a small, soft smile spread across Aldon’s face. He wrapped his arms around his friend tightly, smacking his friend with a light kiss on his cheek. “That’s why I love you, Ed.”

He felt the poke of a wand in his ribs, and he was out. 

XXX

“Why, Rigel Black, as I live and breathe.”

It was less than week after they had returned to Hogwarts, and the boy was already lost in a potions manual. He looked up, a frown marring his otherwise delicate face, clearly annoyed at having been interrupted.

“Rosier, what a … pleasant surprise,” he said, the pause pointed. Aldon grinned, accepting the barb without comment. He didn’t need his gift to know that Black was lying, and anyway, his core pretty much always buzzed around the boy. So he was still wearing the glamour. “And Rookwood as well, how _unusual_ to see the two of you together.”

“Isn’t he _amusing_ , Edmund?” Aldon said, talking the time to perch on the arm of Black’s chair, hovering over him. Looking over Black’s book, he could hardly help but be a little surprised – Black was copying out a recipe for Allergy Relief Potion, a fourth-year potion. Was he that advanced, already? “Come now, young Mr. Black, it’s really been too long. We want to hear all about your break, don’t we?”

“Indeed,” Ed agreed easily, the seriousness in his dark eyes belying his tone. “Perhaps you should sit, Aldon. I believe Mr. Black is uncomfortable with you hovering over him.”

“Well,” Aldon sighed dramatically. “I suppose I could. I am such a good hoverer, you know.”’

“I’ll add that to your dossier,” Black cut in dryly, his tone bored. It could not be more obvious that he was not interested in having conversation with them, but Aldon would persist. Black didn’t know it yet, but what they had to say was important. He did levitate two seats over so that he and Ed could sit and chat with Black comfortably. Black’s eyes followed the chairs, still frowning.

“Well, Black, don’t keep us waiting.” He settled into his chair, leaning back. “How was your Yule? Judging by the stains on your fingers I’d guess you spent the whole two weeks in your lab.”

“Not the whole two weeks,” Black objected. “I wouldn’t miss the chance to reconnect with my family after my first long stint away, after all. It is harder to be far from home than I had anticipated.”

They were lies, but good ones – in truth, both statements were half-lies, and had Black left it at the first one, Aldon would have assumed that he _had_ spent the whole of the two weeks in the potions lab. But the second lie, a transparent attempt to distract them from the question by an admission of weakness, that was questionable.

“Naturally,” Aldon said, letting a half-smile cross his lips, though he examined Black with a critical eye. “Though, it’s candid of you to own up to such a thing. So many first-years pretend to an unrealistic self-sufficiency the moment they step onto the train. How refreshing to witness such open familial respect in these liberal times.”

“No sense in pretending,” Black replied, shrugging. He had taken care to make the movement casual, artless. “I’ve always been a poor liar.”

The itch in Aldon’s core was so intense that it was only much practice and the fact that he was in public that kept him still. He laughed, a sharp scoff. “Now, that, I don’t believe. In truth, I wonder what you seek to hide about your break, that you admit so readily to something most of your classmates would feverishly deny. I can only conclude that you’ve a much more interesting truth to keep hidden.”

Black opened his mouth to object, but Aldon waved off his protests, grinning darkly. “Ah-ah, no telling. I’ll figure it out eventually.”

Ed shot him a look, reminding him of why they had come, and Aldon raised an eyebrow at his friend. He knew why they were there, but there was no reason not to play. Still, he allowed his friend to change the topic – perhaps Black was getting a little too riled up.

“Pansy tells us you met with her parents over the break to seek formal permission to befriend her,” Ed said. “She believes it went quite well.”

“I really couldn’t say,” Black demurred.

“Yes, her father tends to have that effect on people,” Aldon replied, offhand. “But, if Rose Parkinson likes you, everyone likes you, so I daresay you have nothing to lose sleep over. Did you celebrate Yule with any other families?”

He knew full well that the current Lord Black was very close to Lord Potter; that was the whole reason they were speaking to Black today.

“Yes, our family is very close to the Potters,” Black replied, as expected.

“And how is the young Potter heir?” Ed asked, the polite rumble in his voice almost out of place. Ed preferred not to engage in this type of polite, meaningless chatter unless it was important, though Black would not know that.

“Harry is well,” Black replied, drawing out the last word slightly in his uncertainty. “It was nice to catch up for a couple of weeks.”

“You speak so fondly of Miss Potter,” Aldon added, purposely putting in a cajoling note into his voice. “Childhood playmates, are you not?”

“Yes, I suppose we were…”

“Betrothed, are you?”

Black choked on his surprise, then coughed politely, and Aldon suppressed an amused grin. “What?! Harry and …. No, no, nothing like that.”

“Really?” Aldon kept his voice light, innocent, skeptical. “Years of friendship and no betrothal to speak of? Come now, Black, you can tell us about your blossoming romance.”

“There is no romantic attachment between Harry and I,” Black insisted. “We are practically siblings, and shall always be nothing but close friends.”

Aldon turned to Ed, spotting the amused glint in his friend’s eye. It was an odd experience, to be sure, interrogating an eleven-year-old on his romantic attachments, and Black’s reactions were even more entertaining. Not in the way he would expect, of course; no, the entertaining part was that Black was clearly off-put by the questions, that Black assumed that things like being practically siblings would mean they would never be more than close friends. It was patently obvious he had not grown up in Society, where many families had their children betrothed before they attended school. Particularly in families as close as the Blacks and Potters, in fact.

“Protests an awful lot, doesn’t he?” he said, then turned back to Black. “Well, if you’re sure?”

“Quite sure, thank you.”

“Then am I to understand that Harriett Potter is not yet betrothed to anyone?”

“Well, no … she isn’t.” Black’s usual expressionless poker face was disintegrating, his confusion was shining through. Aldon suppressed a laugh.

“None? We’ll have to remedy that, won’t we, Edmund?”

“Indeed, we shall,” Ed replied, voice bland, though his eyes were laughing. “I, for one, have heard only good things about the young Miss Potter – apparently her eyes are as green as finely polished serpent scales.”

Aldon laughed, a controlled, orchestrated, laugh. “Oh, I’m telling Rose you made fun of her, Ed.”

“Then, I shall tell her you teased dear Pansy’s new friend by asking for his cousin’s hand in marriage,” Ed replied, leaning back in his chair in the perfect picture of relaxation.

“Who said was teasing?” Aldon replied, turning his eyes, now serious, onto Black, whose face was becoming more bemused by the second. “After all, _someone_ will have to marry her if the whispers I hear about the new legislation being pushed through this summer are even half-credible.”

Black’s face was such an entertaining mosaic of expression. In an instant, his face had dropped the confusion and there remained only sharp focus, a serious intent in his grey eyes. His hands were still on his potions book, though he had set it on his lap. His voice was soft. “Going to explain that?”

“I wouldn’t dream of counting my Ministerial reforms before they’re ratified,” Aldon replied lightly. “But if one listens to the rumours, which of course one always should, one might be a _tad_ concerned for their lesser-blooded friends and family come June.”

“Not _concerned_ ,” Ed interrupted, shooting Aldon a look. Oops. Well, Aldon was distinctly _concerned_ , but then again, he was a probable halfblood like Potter; certainly, from a pureblooded, SOW Party standpoint, of course he shouldn’t be concerned.

“Oh, no, of course I meant to say that one would be _excited_ for their friends,” Aldon agreed easily. “After all, it is not every day that social reform encouraging the lawful union of mixed-blooded witches and wizards with their purer counterparts makes its way before the Wizengamot.”

“And what encouragement it is,” Ed added, his voice void of any actual excitement or music. It was low, bland, monotone. “The proposed legislation practically demands that holy matrimony be established.”

“And while certain parties still stand firmly in the way of this bold new step, you never know when something will happen to discredit those troublesome resistant groups. I’m sure your cousin will be _thrilled_ to hear about the new opportunity soon to be afforded to her.”

There was a pregnant pause. Aldon exchanged looks with Ed, who shifted his head slightly to indicate that their mission was complete. He stood up, and Aldon followed.

“Alas, we cannot wile away the day with you, my dear little snake. Adieu.”

“It was enlightening, as always, Rosier,” Black agreed, standing up politely. “Have a pleasant evening, Rookwood.”

“I’m sure we’ll see you around, Black.” 

XXX

Aldon kept his eyes on the news over the next few weeks, expecting something, anything, to happen. He didn’t know what they were looking for, but there was no way that the legislation proposed by the Party would pass as it was – Dumbledore’s Light bastion was still too strong. Something needed to happen to decrease his political support, and obviously, based on Professor Quirrell’s words at the Gala, something had been planned. But he hadn’t expected it to strike at Hogwarts.

After the first student got sick, then the second, then the third, though, things began to make a disturbing sense. Hogwarts was the seat of Lord Dumbledore’s power, and people would lose faith in him if something struck down the children under his care. And Professor Quirrell had spoken with pride, with eagerness, at the Gala: _Don’t worry about that. Things can change quickly._ He had known something was going to happen, and that was odd in and of itself, because Professor Quirrell, as a halfblood, was decidedly not in the SOW Party inner circle.

“It doesn’t even make any sense,” he muttered to Ed, late one night in their dorms. “What does children getting sick have anything to do with a marriage law?”

“It doesn’t,” came the clinical reply. “And you know that. You know that if enough people lose faith in Dumbledore, generally, there will be more support for the Party.”

“But it doesn’t make any _sense_ ,” Aldon argued, though he well knew the answer.

“That won’t matter, Aldon,” Ed replied, though there was a soft note in his voice. Ed’s version of reassurance. “It doesn’t affect most people, and more people will be inclined to trust the Party, and that will be enough.”

Ed’s voice was bland, and Aldon almost thought that perhaps Ed might not be fully in support of the Party, despite his parent’s political allegiances. There were clues enough – it had been Ed’s suggestion to alert Black to the proposed legislation, and there were hints, here and there, where he commented on political matters without emotion, in a cool, detached, voice. But he was sure that he showed the same signals, the same signs, and Ed never asked.

What reason would Ed have to break with the SOW Party orthodoxy? He was a pureblood wizard from one of the more prominent, wealthy families. Even if his family was not part of Sacred Twenty-Eight, there was no question about his bloodline. He was pureblood; his parents, too, were both considered pureblood. He thought one of Ed’s grandparents might have been halfblooded, and one of his great-grandmothers had been a Muggleborn, but the SOW Party had a very clear definition of who was considered a pureblood, and Ed met it. Hell, it was possible that Aldon, too, was pureblooded by definition; if his father had had him by a halfblooded woman who had a Muggleborn parent, then he would be, by definition, a pureblood. But without knowing how he came to be, it would be difficult to make that argument when he carried the truth-gift.

As a probable half-blood, Aldon had to be careful not to impose his own desires onto his analysis. Had Ed actually shown signs of breaking with SOW Party beliefs, or was it just that Aldon wanted him to break from the orthodoxy and imposed that interpretation onto his actions? He could never be sure.

He had thought about outright asking what Ed thought, more than once. But knowing Ed, his response would be typically non-committal. _It is what it is, Aldon_ , he imagined his friend saying. Ed was the master of non-committal non-answers, and if there was one thing Aldon’s gift told him, it was that Ed preferred let people think what they wanted of him and to give away as little as possible. An open and frank discussion? Never, at least not with Aldon. Perhaps with Alice.

He sometimes wondered about Alice, as well. She had changed after the death of her younger sister, which was not surprising. She had been close to Isidore, and the year after, she had begun wearing heavier makeup, lining her dark blue eyes with black.  She had been moodier, snappier even with Ed, and, between her Prefect duties and schoolwork, he saw that she had been reading a lot of books about Healing, about the Fade. Last year, he had chalked it up to her mourning process – this year, he was certain he had caught her snorting softly sometimes at a comment on pureblood supremacy here or there. Malfoy was a particularly good target, on that end.

He could ask, and with his gift, he would even be able to tell if Ed or Alice lied about their beliefs. But he didn’t dare – even asking would reveal where he stood on things, could tip them off on top of all the clues he was sure he gave out daily, and what would be the point? In the best-case scenario, they would all agree that the SOW Party beliefs on pureblood supremacy were ridiculous. And then what?

The younger students were still getting sick, day by day. He had no doubt that it was one of Lord Riddle’s plans to push through his legislation. A part of him expected, with each passing day, that a cure would be discovered, that students would start returning, but the smarter part of him knew that this would never happen, not while there was the law to pass. Still, every day, he looked around the Great Hall at mealtimes, and the Hall grew emptier and emptier, the students more and more subdued. Even the prank pulled by the Weasley twins, a year below him, only changed the atmosphere for a few hours.

Alice, too, disappeared. “Professor Snape needs to brew for the Hospital Wing, so I have to sit in his office in case there are students with questions,” she explained without emotion, the first night, and her eyeliner was heavier than Aldon had ever seen it since Isidore’s death. The sickness, even though she knew the purposes of it, either through her family connections or because Ed did tell her everything, hit her hard. It reminded her too much of Isidore, Aldon surmised.

One night turned into a week, turned into a month, six weeks, two months, and Ed became quieter without her presence. About the only time he brightened was when Black, of all people, delivered a vial of something or other for him from her.

It was after her roommate, Millicent Bulstrode, fell ill that Pansy came to sit with him and Edmund most evenings. She sat quietly, doing homework at first, but soon that, too, fell away.

“Where is Malfoy? Black?” Ed asked her kindly, two or three nights into her joining them.

“Quidditch,” Pansy replied, voice quiet over her book, her face unusually wan. “And Rigel is in his potions lab.”

Ed nodded, patting her gently on the shoulder. Aldon was more demonstrative, leaning over to wrap the girl in a short hug, and she quivered slightly at his affection. “It’ll be all right,” he murmured softly, his gift noting his own lie, but she wouldn’t feel that.

“Thank you,” she said, pulling away and fixing her hair self-consciously.

They let her sit with them, teasing her now and then, but mostly letting her read in silence. First year classes had been cancelled, and with her friends dropping, it was the least they could do. They knew that it was only a matter of time, especially after Malfoy fell ill, and it was to no one’s surprise that Pansy fell ill less than a half-day after Draco did. They found her in the common room in the break between classes, and Ed carried her to the Hospital Wing himself. They exchanged dark looks, silent, but what could be done?

What could any of them do? 

XXX

It was Black who cured the sickness, and Aldon found his interest in the boy renewed, adding a new piece of information to the drawer of his mind labelled _Rigel Black_. Pansy and Malfoy were sick for less than a week, all told, and based on the charmingly lovely interview provided by Lord Malfoy, he very much doubted that this was expected to be the case. Especially because the legislation hadn’t even been formally submitted yet.

He would have cornered Black himself, but most puzzlingly, Black continued to be missing, occupied on other duties, while the other sick students were being cured. Instead, he questioned both Pansy and Malfoy, the first two cured (as if that wasn’t a hint in and of itself), but both were disappointingly closed-mouthed.

“I’m afraid I simply don’t know how the cure works,” Pansy lied prettily with a straight face. “I _am_ just a first-year, Aldon. I just… woke up.”

Malfoy, stone-faced, just said, “You’ll have to ask Rigel.”

The other students Aldon asked simply didn’t know, and he didn’t have many students he could easily approach in other Houses who might have been of more help. Bulstrode said something about a mindscape, magical cores, and a black blanket, but it didn’t make much sense, and however much she tried to explain it, it never did make any sense.

Ed and Alice, too, were making inquiries with their sources. Ed, predictably, had little luck – he was not generally outgoing, few students knew him well, and fewer still were willing to talk to him about their experiences with the sickness. And although his parents were well respected members of the SOW Party, Mr. Rookwood worked in the Department of Mysteries and had little to do on the legislative end. It was Alice, as the eldest of their group, who managed to pull information from her parents.

“They’re tabling the legislation,” she told them quietly, a week after the students started returning. Professor Snape, it appeared, was back on his regular duties; Professor Dumbledore had called in a Master Legilimens, Gina Whitefield, from St. Mungo’s Hospital for assistance, but Black was still missing. “The political winds are changing.”

The article on May sixth was _quite_ enlightening. He had read it in detail, not once but three times, with a particular emphasis on the paragraphs detailing Black’s powers. _How is it that young Mr. Black was able to break through mental barriers that stopped even the strongest of Legilimens, but was not able to eradicate the sickness from the minds of those he helped without assistance? … Mr. Black is not a Legilimens at all, but something else entirely, someone able to surpass mental barriers with a skill of his own._

He passed his paper to Ed and Alice, leaning back in his corner on a couch in the Slytherin Common Room while the others read it. So, aside from having powerful and somewhat uncontrolled magic, Black had a mysterious skill of his own. Was Black’s magic _wild_? Was there a possibility, however slight, that Black wasn’t pureblooded, that Aldon wasn’t alone?

The thought was irresistible, even as Aldon tried to reason with himself. He had been through this before. It didn’t make sense that Black wasn’t pureblooded, because Lord Black didn’t hold with blood-prejudice, and Black was _here_ , instead of abroad. But at the same time, the evidence was undeniable; Black could do something that apparently no one else could. Because if anyone had known what he had done, if anyone had had the _ability_ to do what he had done, the sickness would have been cured weeks ago. No Light-leaning, or even Dark-leaning, wizard would have permitted the illness to go unchecked as long as it had. And, even once he had apparently discovered the cure, there was no reason why they wouldn’t have had someone else come in to assist him, why he needed to continue missing his classes, especially once the Healer from St. Mungo’s arrived. Whatever the cure was, it must have been something unique to Black, something only Black could do.

There were explanations other than wild magic, he reminded himself, struggling. There were Dark magic affinities and Light magic affinities and Neutral magic affinities, and a Dark wizard could not do the same high-level spells as a Light wizard, nor a Neutral wizard. But all the spells depending on affinity were extremely advanced, outside the Hogwarts curriculum, and _far_ beyond what a first-year student knew how to do – or should know how to do, at any rate.

Maybe Black just didn’t know what he was doing, but if so, then that would speak to his magic being _wild_ – and he was back at the beginning.

Lost in thought, he hadn’t noticed that Flint had joined them, and that Alice and Ed had passed him the article. “Huh,” he snorted, setting the paper down. “Interesting.”

The words shouldn’t have triggered anything – they were too empty. But a wave, however slight, trickled through Aldon’s core, and he looked at the older boy sharply. “You know something.”

“Nothing much.”

“And that’s a lie,” Aldon accused, knowing that Ed was frowning at his outburst. “You know _something_.”

Flint scowled at him. “I said, nothing much.”

“Let’s just ask Black for ourselves, shall we?” Alice interrupted, as Aldon was opening his mouth to argue. She stood up, gesturing to the common room door, where Black was walking in. He made a tired line straight for the door leaning to the first-year dormitories, but Alice caught up to him first, steering him gently, if firmly, to the group of upper-years.

Black was frowning slightly, no doubt somewhat displeased at having been pulled away for a conversation with a motley group of upper-year students, but too polite to show it openly.

“Alice, so nice of you to join us,” Aldon said, slightly sarcastic. On one hand, he was annoyed that she had interrupted him when he was pushing Flint, but on the other, Black was here to question instead. Mentally, he pulled himself together. It was what it was, and there would be other opportunities for him to pry Flint for what he knew. “And you’ve brought Mr. Black as well, how fortuitous.”

“Why is that, Rosier?” Rigel asked, polite to a fault.

“It’s because we were just talking about you, Black,” Flint replied, his eyes glinting. He was shooting Aldon a look, clearly ruffled by his manner.

“Surely three such interesting upperclassmen such as yourselves have something better to talk about. Don’t you have final exams to study for or something?”

Aldon snorted, glancing at Ed, whose face was carefully blank, though his brown eyes were amused. Flint’s face was carefully inscrutable. Alice sat back down on the couch, between him and Ed, and stared pointedly at Black until the boy sat down on the couch across from them beside Flint.

“Show Black the article,” she ordered, poking him in the arm.

Aldon glared at her, and she ignored it, but he slid his paper over to Black without comment. He picked it up to skim, and as his eyes followed the article down, his face took on a cast of open annoyance, then disgust.

“They make it sound like I’m sort of super Legilimens,” he said, lip curling.

“It gets better. Just keep reading.” Aldon suggested, somewhat vindictively enjoying Black’s expression. Black’s secrets were _so close_ , he just needed to push enough, at the right spot. Flint knew something, and wouldn’t tell him, and Black of course knew it, and Aldon’s magic was buzzing looking at the boy, and he was going somewhere with his train of thought, and it was all so close he could taste it.

“How in Merlin’s name did Skeeter manage to make an entire article that was supposed to be on an illness about one eleven-year-old boy who didn’t even have the illness?” Black muttered, reaching the end. It was a lie, and Aldon suppressed his scowl with some effort. Why on earth was that a lie?

“You should be proud, Black,” Flint lied, a glint in his eyes. Why was that a lie? Was it connected to the last one? His gift should _not_ be picking these up as lies, and yet they were. Flint knew something – even if Flint _believed_ it, it shouldn’t have registered. “If your dream is to be a Healer, I mean. After this, any Hospital would be mad not to hire Arcturus Black.” And that was, strangely, true.

Black grimaced. “It has nothing to do with Healing,” he denied firmly. “I didn’t Heal anyone, I just used what Professor Snape taught me to help _him_ cure the sickness, which wasn’t even really a sickness. It didn’t make anyone sick, it was more like a contagious curse. So if anything, what I did was creative curse-breaking, not Healing.”

That was, interestingly, all true.

Alice laughed, a light ringing sound. “Poor little snake. Not much for attention, are you?”

“I can’t see why anyone would be. All it brings is trouble.”

“Says the honorary Malfoy,” Flint smirked, and Aldon’s eyes snapped to him, because it was _true_. Was this what Flint was hiding earlier? It _was_ a lie by omission, earlier. It didn’t explain why Flint’s previous sentence, saying Black should be proud, rang as a lie, but he would work that out later. Perhaps Flint was in favour of the laws, his own family background notwithstanding. “Oh, yes, we’ve heard about that as well. Draco Malfoy seems to be under the impression that you saved his life, and that you’re now his brother by magic as well as his cousin by blood.”

Black looked down at his lap, where his hands were neatly folded, hiding his face. “The Malfoys are too kind.”

“But not mistaken?” Aldon’s voice was silk. “So you did save Draco Malfoy’s life. How could that be when, from your own account, the sickness isn’t even an illness at all?”

Black shifted, uncomfortable under the gaze of the upper-years. “Draco was an exception. He had an allergy to … one of the ingredients in the potions he needed to stay stable under the coma. I sort of … saved him by default, by helping to cure the sickness before the time he had on life-sustaining spells ran out.”

“So you weren’t trying to save him?” Ed asked, his gravelly voice carrying a hint of amusement.

“Well, I guess I was,” Black prevaricated, “but I would have done it for anyone. I didn’t need to be adopted by the Malfoys. They’re great, but I have a family.” That was true.

“But you _did_ save their Heir,” Alice said, delicately, seeking confirmation.

“I saved my _friend_ ,” Black replied firmly.

“Well, whoever you saved or didn’t save, the fact is that it ended the sickness.” Aldon interrupted, gesturing at the paper. He glanced at his friends, Ed and Alice, who nodded subtly in support. “As a result, Dumbledore’s credibility is higher than ever. Now that the children are safe again, no one wants to admit they ever doubted the Headmaster.”

“And with this article suggesting that Dumbledore’s teachings are what gave you the power you needed to cure the sickness, most people are of the opinion that the Headmaster should keep doing what he’s doing, in all areas,” Flint added, evidently seeing Aldon’s train of thought. Aldon glanced at him, eyebrow raised, but Flint was expressionless. Clearly Flint was not so disinterested in politics as he let most assume.

“In other words,” Alice broke in, “Dumbledore’s opinion is as good as goblin gold in the wizarding world right now, and rumour has it that his opinion is very much against a certain set of laws that were supposed to come up for discussion before the Wizengamot this summer.”

“The mixed-blood marriage laws,” Black confirmed, voice flat. “You think they’ll be voted against in the Wizengamot now that Dumbledore’s faction has the advantage once more?”

Aldon suppressed a laugh. Black’s naivete was charming. “I very much doubt that the SOW Party would be foolish enough to push the laws into consideration while the political winds were not at their backs.”

“So they’ll table the laws until they have the support they need.” At least Black caught on quickly.

“No one wants to risk losing when they don’t have to,” Alice said blandly.

“No doubt the SOW Party will be very interested in how, exactly, the sickness that so _fortuitously_ arise in Dumbledore’s school while the law Dumbledore would have so vehemently opposed was being introduced came to be cured miraculously by a mere first-year,” Aldon added, voice quiet. He was walking a fine line – he might _suspect_ his friends were turning from SOW Party lines, but he didn’t know, especially for Flint, so he had to be careful. “I know I’m interested. And you, Edmund?”

“It certainly is interesting, Aldon,” Ed agreed lightly, “that the truth about the cure is so muddled. Most Slytherins are under the impression that Professor Snape played a significant, if not a dominant, role in stopping the sickness. But most of the younger students, particularly those afflicted by the sickness itself, would say that you, Mr. Black, were primarily responsible for their recovery, with only supplemental help from the Mind Healers. Other reports say that Professor Snape was in fact out of the country when Draco Malfoy fell ill, and of course the Prophet suggests that Dumbledore played a part in the cure.”

Aldon didn’t miss the supremely guilty look that had crossed Black’s face as Ed summarized the different impressions they had gotten, though he picked up the train of the lecture easily enough. “All anyone knows for sure is that, somehow, Rigel Black got involved – and what a first-year who wasn’t sick was doing during the Quarantine no one seems to know – and that he ended up curing the sickness, acquiring a life-debt from the Malfoys, and becoming solely responsible for curing the rest of the patients as well.”

“Your involvement can, of course, be explained by what Selwyn has told us – namely, that you were brewing an exorbitant amount of potions for Professor Snape as far back as February. Presumably Snape had you brewing for the sickness and so just let you continue brewing for the Wing while he was out of the country. If he was indeed gone while Draco Malfoy was ill, then it would make sense that you felt you needed to become involved, both because Malfoy is your friend and because you were given a position of powerful leverage as Snape’s replacement,” Ed continued. Aldon raised an eyebrow at his friend; clearly there were things that Alice was telling him that didn’t get passed along to him. He didn’t know why he was surprised, really, even if he was a little hurt. Ed was closed-mouthed, unless it suited his purposes. “What doesn’t add up is why you _personally_ had to help awaken every single student. It can’t be because Dumbledore didn’t want to involve anyone else, because he hired a Healer from St. Mungo’s to take Snape’s place in the cure.”

Never mind what Ed told him or didn’t tell him – Aldon had no difficulty picking up where Ed left off. “On the other hand, it _does_ add up if for some reason no one else _could_ cure those students. In order words, the only solution is that _you,_ Rigel Black, are able to do something that no one else could do. Something that couldn’t be taught, couldn’t be passed off to someone older, and therefore something that had nothing to do with Snape _or_ Dumbledore. And that is certainly interesting.” _And possibly wild._

“What’s _also_ interesting,” Ed cut in, shooting Aldon a slightly surprised look, “is that you were so dismissing of the illness actually being an illness. That suggests that you have Healer training or knowledge of some kind, though your father denied it in his interview and you, yourself, seemed impressed and curious when I healed your wrist last semester. Not to mention the fact that, by your own admission, you hate hospitals and Mediwizards. In short… the anomalies are beginning to add up, Mr. Black.”

Black glanced between the two of them, his grey eyes skipping over Alice, sitting and smirking between them. “Are you finished?” he asked, his voice distinctly annoyed. Aldon nodded, catching Ed doing the same on the other side.

“First of all, you have figured out most of it. I cured the sickness by doing something that I am told no one else can, though it doesn’t seem so difficult to me, only a little confusing. Snape taught me some of the things I used to get around the sickness, though he didn’t put them together the way I did, that that’s why I said he influenced the cure heavily. Dumbledore facilitated the cure, and since it’s his Potions Master that taught me what I needed to figure out a cure, what was said about his school being responsible for the cure is true too. I have self-training for Mediwizardry, and that I only started after the winter break, precisely _because_ I didn’t want to have to rely on other Mediwizards and hospitals. Did I get everything?”

_True, true, true, true, lie._ If not to avoid relying on other Mediwizards and hospitals, why was Black learning Healing at all? The easy answer to that was because he was influenced by his mother’s death, but if so, why wasn’t he learning Healing before that? Especially because Lord Black himself, in the article, had intimated that he had always had an interest in healing … Aldon shrugged mentally, putting the comment aside for later consideration.

“Everything but the actual _cure,_ ” Alice noted, voice clear. “Aren’t you going to tell us exactly what you did?”

“What do you think I did?” Black widened his grey eyes slightly, affecting a look of innocence that fooled no one.

“In other words, no, he’s not.” Flint grunted.

“Fine, then,” Aldon sighed dramatically, even as he studied Black. “Keep your talents secret. One day, we’ll figure you out entirely.”

“And until then, we’ll be watching you closely,” Ed added, his voice both amused and ominous.

Black sighed, nodded, and excused himself politely. 

XXX

He moved on, but he didn’t forget. There were exams, and the usual end of year festivities, and home. Ed had secured an internship at the International Creatures Reserve that his uncle worked at, and Alice had a summer position with a magazine specializing in Ancient Runes. Aldon, meanwhile, was largely was left to his own devices. The trouble with magical theory as a career option was that there were no institutions in Britain specializing in the area, and most magical theorists in the country were employed by the SOW Party and were essentially paid to find research promoting Party positions. The few that weren’t were with private development companies, but none were seeking interns in theory that summer. There were opportunities abroad, but his parents wouldn’t hear of it.

He was the Rosier Heir. He had a place at home, at the Rosier Investment Trust. Nominally, in fact, he was spending his summer shadowing at the Trust. Some days, he went with his father to meet with some of the businesses that they had invested in or that they were considering investing in and helped review documents for new business plans, new products. He took the lead on a negotiated loan for a new pub, just off the end of Diagon Alley, where a more _discerning_ clientele could go rather than the Leaky Cauldron, just off the steps of Muggle London. While Aldon wasn’t particularly impressed with that pitch, he was interested in their in-house Butterbeer experimentation, and they planned on carrying a good selection of other wizarding ciders as well. The extra-sweet Butterbeer, he thought, would do well with those who found Butterbeer too bitter.

Aldon was good at his job – good at negotiating, good at assessing the value of new products and ideas, good at dealing with businesses and investors. Sometimes, he even enjoyed it. And then he remembered the fragile position he was in, and the enjoyment drained away.

Other days, or rather, most days, when his father deemed that a negotiation or investor meeting too difficult or sensitive, he read. He was already a frequent visitor at Flourish and Blotts, and found himself quietly ordering in treatises on magical theory from abroad which were, for lack of a better word, _unsanctioned_. He was still looking, if half-heartedly, at information on magical inheritances, but he wasn’t hopeful of finding anything that would change his previous conclusions. If anything, what he found was less heartening.

Magical gifts ran a spectrum between the wild and the organized. Most gifts tended to run towards the organized end, because they had a very specific effect: Parseltongue, Metamorphagi, Natural Occlumens, and Animation were on this end. These gifts usually ran along pureblood lines, and no Muggleborn had been reported to have them. There were, however, the “wild” gifts, like Seers, the Truth-gift, and Natural Legilimens, which broke the usual rules of Magic and were more common in Muggleborns and those of Muggleborn descent. These gifts were never passed down long, though, because once their magic lost its original wildness, it apparently lost the ability to break the rules. Halfbloods were somewhere in the middle, and though the research specifically on halfbloods didn’t have a definitive conclusion, it seemed that halfblood magic was both wild enough to allow for Muggleborn gifts, but also structured enough to able to hold the traditional pureblood gifts.

He was looking, too, into the nature of magic generally, including differences in Muggleborn and pureblood magic, on wild magic and controlled magic. Most of these books he had to special order from America, but they were worth it: they were thorough, complete academic works which confronted ambiguity and provided thorough references and refutations to other works. He ordered a volume specifically on accidental magic, a volume on Dark magic, on Light magic, on Neutral magic, and everything in-between. If it wasn’t for the fact that he was _the Rosier Heir_ , he thought that his purchase pattern would have raised eyebrows.

“Interesting reading, recently,” Mr. Flourish had said, tone non-committal, when Aldon came by to pick up his latest order. Mr. Flourish was a large man, towering over most of his clientele, and his expression was cautious. “I would be careful with these books, Master Rosier – if it were anyone else, I wouldn’t have ordered it, because the content of these books are rather … Well, by law, I need to provide you with this slip within each of these books. And you’ll need to sign this acknowledgement, as well.”

Aldon had nodded agreeably, barely skimming the little sheets which Mr. Flourish had slid in the front cover of each of his books. He knew what they said: _Content in this book has not been proven and contain theories only. For alternative theories from reputable British scholars, please consider these other titles_. He burned them regularly at home. “Yes, I know how it is, Mr. Flourish,” he replied easily, signing the proffered acknowledgement. It was standard for buying books with _sensitive_ content. It was odd, wasn’t it, that you could buy books on curses and poisons without anyone blinking an eye, but books on magical theory were sensitive? “You have to know what the other side is saying before you can argue with them, you know, Mr. Flourish.”

“Yes, absolutely,” Mr. Flourish would agree, smiling in slight relief and putting the signed acknowledgement away. Aldon would smile in return, and neither of their smiles would reach their eyes.

Some of his books were more theoretical, less accepted than the others, but certain of them, Aldon thought, were the accepted consensus abroad. Three of the books, in particular, were cited broadly in other treatises and in the magical theory journal he ordered from America by way of France, which always showed up with a ruffled, annoyed owl two weeks after it came out. The owl always waited until Aldon was home to deliver the journal, resting in a shadowed nook on the Rosier Mansion roof until he was in his room before it knocked on his window.

From his reading, he learned that magic was not the same across the board. Quite apart from magical gifts and inheritances, each individual witch or wizard’s magic was different and carried different abilities at the upper levels. Less controversially, there were differences in power. Power levels were systematically measured on a colour spectrum: red indicated near-Squib-level witches and wizards, yellow and green were average, blue was significantly above average, and anything above indigo, that coveted point where blue darkened to purple, was Lord-level. Power levels were widely known and understood, since it was fundamental to the study of fields such as alchemy and Arithmancy. Based on a witch or wizard’s power level, there would be certain spells that would be out of reach. Aldon himself was slightly above-average, in the green-blue range, which was plenty powerful, even if he wouldn’t be summoning an earthquake anytime soon. Or ever.

Aside from power levels, there were the affinities, Light, Dark, and Neutral, which described how a witch or wizard formed their magic. For the most part, it didn’t matter whether a witch or wizard formed their magic in the Light way, focusing on patience and precision, or the Dark way, focusing on power and speed. Or, even, the Neutral way, which perfectly balanced the two. Based on the international research, it was better described as a spectrum rather than as two, or even three, isolated monoliths. At the upper levels, a witch or wizard who formed their spells in the Light way would not be able to perform the same spells as a witch or wizard who formed their spells in the Dark way, and vice versa. Most spells fell somewhere in the middle, accessible to both Light and Dark wizards, hence the distinction didn’t matter for most, except for where it interacted with politics. Aldon had always considered himself to be a Dark wizard, but based on the current research, he realized that his tendency towards Dark magic was quite weak – he was somewhere between Neutral and Dark, if truth be told.

And then, apart from both power levels and affinities, there was the nature of magic itself. The nature of magic stretched between wild and tamed, strongly correlated with blood status. Muggleborn magic almost always fell on the wild end, unorganized, difficult to control, but capable of breaking the commonly-accepted rules of magic. Pureblood magic was entirely tamed, quiescent, controlled. But the wildness, the ability for magic to break the commonly accepted rules of magic, didn’t remain – when passed down through generations, the wildness was slowly lost, and four generations on, it was tamed. There was an excellent, recent, intergenerational study performed in America on this exact issue, and the results were quite conclusive. Halfbloods, particularly the direct descendants of powerful Muggleborns, tended to still carry some of the native wildness, but unless new Muggleborn magic was added in, the wildness, the ability to break the rules, would decrease each generation until it became entirely tame. There was even name for it – Archibald’s Theory of Increasing Organization.

Some theorists had argued that accidental magic fell outside this explanation, since it acted wildly, outside the child’s control and didn’t follow a spell. However, most were of the view that accidental magic, both of Muggleborns and wizarding children, rather proved the point. Pureblood accidental magic didn’t go far: it was instantaneous, elemental, sudden, reacting to a child’s anger or fear. Classic accidental magic for a pureblood were explosions in anger, sending things flying, bouncing when they fell. But based on reports from powerful Muggleborn children and their families, Muggleborn accidental magic was something different, almost inventive. Like pureblooded accidental magic, it reacted to a child’s anger or fear or other powerful emotion, but instead of explosions, flying and the like, it tended to react in an almost _sentient_ way. If a child was worried about being punished, it would fix the thing that had gone wrong. Instead of sending things flying wantonly, it could draw things in patterns to distract and amuse the child. It the child fell, rather than a fear-reaction of bouncing to avoid pain, or slowing a fall, it could act earlier and steady the child. It had a native sort of intelligence to it, and that was different.

Aldon hid his new books, carefully pressed without a hint of damage, behind the other texts that he had bought off the list of “suggested” titles that were, by law, provided to him. Even if he doubted anyone would be searching his rooms, he carefully dog-eared and wore the approved books by the time-honoured method of treating those books like a used textbook; he left them open at random pages, destroying the spine, spilled tea and ink on them, dog-eared them as if he liked particular passages, made notes in the margins and underlined passages. It wasn’t that he didn’t _read_ them, he always read them once, dog-earing and spilling ink along the way. He just wasn’t convinced by them anymore. The studies – the ones that had studies at all – had extremely small sample sizes, their conclusions seemed to vastly overstate their results, and there were large sections that just felt like propaganda. The journals, obtained outside the usual means and therefore untraceable, he read, then transfigured into model Quidditch players from the Pride of Portree. They were his favourite team, if anyone asked.

He sat down on his reading chaise in his private parlour, leaning back to stare at the ceiling. The ceilings in his private parlour, recessed to emphasize a higher ceiling height, were decorated in pale blue, and clouds, mimicking the outside, slowly passed above. He scowled at it, reaching with his magic for a change – clouds skimmed across the ceiling, darkening the room, and just for the hell of it, Aldon told it to storm. Storms were good for thinking.

He turned to his favourite puzzle du jour: Arcturus Rigel Black.

Black had shown two main signs of carrying wild magic – his reaction to Jordan’s attack in November, and his cure for the sickness at Hogwarts. The former had happened outside of Black’s conscious control, or so Aldon thought; the latter, Black himself had said it was something that no one else could do.

With Jordan, Black blasting the older boy away when he was attacked was classic pureblood accidental magic. Even his breaking of the Incarcerous spell was within the bounds of pureblood accidental magic, an immediate reaction to fear and alarm. The issue was the reverse-transfiguration of the rope into wheat – there was no purpose to it, there was nothing with _that_ spell that was linked to Black’s obvious fear in that situation. He had thought, at the time, that perhaps Black was controlling it, but Black didn’t have a wand in his hands. Had he had a wand, Aldon thought the outcome would have been different. And, anyway, what purpose would Black have to reverse-transfigure the rope into the original wheat? And how would he do it without a wand in his hands?

There was such a thing as wandless magic – everyone knew that. The most powerful wizards, Lord Riddle included, did not need to use a wand for some magics. But it was a rare talent, one which the vast majority of witches and wizards never developed, and Black was _eleven years old_. His core hadn’t even matured yet. Between the hypothesis that the reverse-transfiguration was accidental magic, and the possibility that Black was reverse-transfiguring it purposely without a wand and for no discernable reason, Aldon preferred the simple solution that it was accidental magic – even if it did open the possibility that Black’s magic was wild.

The second sign, that Black could do something that no one else could, that was interesting. It wasn’t so much that he had an ability that others didn’t – magical gifts fell into this category, and there were many upper-level spells that one needed a minimum power level and affinity to do. It was more that Black was _eleven years old_. At his age, even if he did develop into a powerful wizard, he shouldn’t have been able to access the high-level spells that acted on those affinities. It was more likely that whatever he was doing was outside the bounds of regular magic, breaking the rules of magic, and that was a clear signifier of something wild.

There was no other way around it – objectively, based on the common academic consensus of the world’s best magical theorists, Black’s magic was wild. And that meant, based on Archibald’s Theory of Increasing Organization, that he had to be a halfblood.

And that made _no sense_.

Aldon pulled open his mental drawer of information on Black, determined to see if there was any useful conclusion he could pull out. If Black was a halfblood – and his magic said he was – then the next question was, why was Black at Hogwarts?

What did Aldon know about Lord Sirius Black? He had always been the black sheep of the Black family. He, unlike the generations of Blacks before him and without any regard for tradition, arrived at Hogwarts and got himself promptly sorted into Gryffindor. Black’s best friends, made within weeks of his arrival at Hogwarts, were James Potter, scion of one of the oldest, wealthiest, pro-Muggle, and Light noble houses; Remus Lupin, a halfblood and now a known werewolf; and Peter Pettigrew, a halfblood and now a low-ranking SOW Party member. Collectively, they became known as the Marauders, setting the precedent for pranksters at Hogwarts. When he was sixteen, the dowager Lady Walburga Black, nee Travers, passed away, leaving him with the title. At eighteen, he eloped with Diana Fawley, a Light pureblood from the Sacred Twenty-Eight, and the marriage had been broadly opposed by both the surviving Blacks and the Fawleys. Once the Split was declared, Lord Black turned on his remaining family members, even those he was formerly close with, and brought the House of Black in alliance with Lord Dumbledore’s Light faction. This was common knowledge, simple fact. Since then, he had held to the Light political positions, donating substantially to the Light coffers.

Based on Lord Black’s choice of friends and his known political positions, Aldon was skeptical that a halfblooded Heir would have caused him much embarrassment – so even if they had adopted, or if for some other reason Arcturus Rigel Black wasn’t a pureblood, why wasn’t it known? Why was Arcturus Rigel Black attending Hogwarts at all?

His mind gravitated automatically to his own supposed history. To be fair, Aldon wasn’t sure how he had come about. All he truly knew was that he had a recent Muggleborn in his bloodline, that he was not the natural child of his mother, and that he did carry nearly all the other Rosier genetic traits. His best guess, that he was a bastard child of his father, didn’t seem to fit for Black – all the records from the days when Society was merged suggested that, when the Lord and Lady Black attended functions together, it had patently obvious that they were deeply in love with each other. According to rumour, after Diana’s death, Lord Black had quit his job as an Auror and stayed in mourning for years – not conducive to an affair leaving a bastard child. And, ruling out the theory that the younger Black was a Black bastard completely, he had located a Society photograph of the late Diana Black heavily pregnant with the younger Black, just a month before his birth was announced.

If the younger Black was a bastard, he had to be a bastard of the late Diana Black and someone else. He turned the idea over carefully in his mind, watching the sparks of lightning flash across his ceiling. If Black was the bastard of his mother and someone else, it would, at least, explain the glamour spell – if Black wasn’t the natural child of Lord Sirius Black, then he wouldn’t carry the genetic signifiers of the Black family. And yet he did. When the late Diana Black was alive, Aldon figured that she could have felt the need to hide the fact that Black wasn’t Lord Black’s child, but she had passed away young. Even an accomplished eight-year-old child wouldn’t have been able to maintain the ruse alone. Unless there was other help – would Lady Potter have continued casting the requisite glamour charms? And if so, why? Surely, if the younger Black was actually a halfblood bastard of Diana Black, his other family members would have helped him reveal the truth to Lord Black, which would have been the logical route?

Or was Lord Black possibly complicit in the whole thing? In his own case, Aldon knew for a fact that his mother had been complicit in whatever lie had come about that led to his existence. His mother had secluded herself for nine months in the Rosier Mansion, seeing no one, for the sole purpose of being able to claim that she was pregnant with him when no one had any objective evidence to say otherwise. And if Black was claiming his wife’s bastard as his own child – why? And, to top it off, Lord Black clearly didn’t hold with blood prejudice. If the younger Black wasn’t a pureblood, for _whatever_ reason, Aldon rather thought that his blood status would be no secret, just simple, proud, fact. And then, Black wouldn’t be at Hogwarts at all.

The younger Black, too, had to know that it was happening and had to be continuing the farce of his own volition at Hogwarts. If he didn’t, his gift wouldn’t have registered his appearance as a lie in the first place, not if his theories that the truth-gift was a focused form of Natural Legilimency were accurate. The fact that his gift identified it meant that Black knew that his appearance was a lie. And why would he go to Hogwarts, continuing the lie, if he himself knew he was a halfblood? Why would he take the risk of being discovered, shamed, and sent home, at a minimum?

And all of that was assuming that Black’s glamour spell hid some clearly non-Black or halfblooded traits. As much as Aldon wanted to believe that the glamour was related to his blood status, it was entirely possible that it hid something completely unrelated, such as scarring, or a chronic illness. Either of those could lead him to avoid Madam Pomfrey, too.

He just didn’t have enough information, so he gave up that line of reasoning as a bad job, shoving those thoughts back in the mental box he had labelled for them and turned to Black himself. He scowled up at the dark cloud over him – it had been storming in his parlour for the better part of an hour, but he didn’t want it to stop. He wasn’t through thinking yet.

Quite aside from the stupid glamour spell and his apparent willingness to suffer broken bones and persistent, constant, pain to continue it, Black was a mess of contradictions. He was good at Potions – so good, in fact, that he had gotten Professor Snape’s attention within the first few weeks and he had taken over brewing for the Hospital Wing when Professor Snape was away. He had said himself that he wanted to pursue a Potions Mastery. And yet, Flint had suggested that Black’s dream was to be a Healer, in their last conversation before the summer holidays. To be fair, Aldon reasoned, given Black’s history, he had a clear reason to want to be a Healer. And Healing was not wholly separate from Potions; most advanced Healing involved potions, and the Healing elective at Hogwarts required extremely high marks in Potions, which was why few students took it. Aldon had seen Black with both potions and Healing books often enough.

But the thing was, if you spoke to Black, or listened to him, it was obvious that he was obsessed with potions. Healing was just an afterthought. He even said, himself, that he had only taken up Healing after the winter holiday, and that was true.

What was it that Flint had said, though?

_You should be proud, Black. If your dream is to be a Healer, I mean._

It was an odd sentence. First, he had lied – _You should be proud, Black_ , was a flat-out lie. On one hand, it could be that Flint was politically in support of the legislation, and hence didn’t think that Black should be proud. While this was the most _likely_ explanation, it didn’t feel right. Flint’s unfortunate family circumstances were broadly, if quietly, known throughout the Slytherin upper-years.  He did go home for school holidays, but anytime Aldon saw him after one of them, he wore the telltale signs of a difficult break. If any pureblood ought to be opposed to the legislation about to the passed, it should have been Flint. With his mother being a Squib, while Flint _himself_ was considered a pureblood, his line would no longer be pureblooded after him, because his mother was not a magic user. Flint had no reason to be in support of SOW Party policies, regardless of his father’s beliefs, and he was notoriously apolitical, besides. It just didn’t feel right.

Aldon turned to the second half – _If your dream is to be a Healer, I mean_. It didn’t ring as a lie, which meant that Flint believed it to be true. But it was an odd phrase, because it was so patently obvious to anyone who watched that Black intended on pursuing a Potions Mastery. Black had even said so, the first time they met. And yet, Flint had spoken like he knew that Black’s dream was to be a Healer… And Black hadn’t disagreed.

No one had known Black before he had come to Hogwarts, the Split being in effect for almost his entire lifetime. No one, that is, except Flint – he distinctly remembered Lord Flint mentioning something about how he and Lord Black had season tickets to the Wimbourne Wasps, which was how he, and the remainder of Dark Society, had learned that the Lord Black had effectively secluded himself at home after the Lady Diana’s death when the young Arcturus Rigel Black started attending games alone. Marcus Flint and Arcturus Rigel Black were close enough that the Flints had bought Archie a ticket to the Quidditch World Cup, five years ago – he didn’t go, because of his mother’s illness, but the fact remained that if anyone knew Black, it was Flint, and therefore… if _Flint_ suggested that Black’s dream was to be a Healer, but Black himself said he intended on pursuing a Potions Master, what did that mean?

His father, too, in the article had intimated that Black had always been interested in Healing, though he didn’t have formal training… But Black said himself he only started learning Healing over the winter holiday, and that had been true. And it was obvious to anyone who looked that Black was obsessed with Potions. Right from the first day, he had said he wanted to pursue a Potions Mastery…

Aldon sat bolt upright, swung his bare feet into the floor and started pacing his parlour. That didn’t make sense. It was as if the Black that Lord Black and Flint knew was not the same Black that Aldon knew. He ran his fingers through his hair, the lightning across the ceiling only barely soothing him, nine paces to one side where overstuffed bookshelves towered, nine paces back to the other side, to the windows with drawn drapes hiding the summer day outside. Nine steps again, back to his chaise, where he sat down for all of a minute before he realized he still needed to move, he was still agitated, he still needed to burn the excess energy. The Black that Lord Black and that Flint knew had always been interested in Healing and wanted to be a Healer. The Black that Aldon knew wanted to be a Potions Master, and was gifted enough, dedicated enough, to attract Professor Snape’s attention within the first few weeks. Nine paces, again, long strides, to his bookshelves, a pause by his fireplace, off for the summer, nine paces back to the draped windows and his reading chaises, nine paces around and around and around.

Was it _possible_ , ever so slightly, that the Black Aldon knew was an _impostor?_ That, for whatever reason, the Black attending Hogwarts, wasn’t the same Black that Flint and Lord Black knew?

Flint had _lied_. _You should be proud, Black._ It was a lie – and Flint _knew_ it was a lie, else it would have read as true.  Was it possible that he was lying when he called Black by name, because he knew Black wasn’t the real Arcturus Rigel Black? It would fit. No one had known Black before he came to Hogwarts except for Flint. If the Arcturus Rigel Black who showed up at Hogwarts was an impostor and not the real Black, realistically, Flint was the only one who would have known. It was so improbable – the reasonable explanation was that Flint’s political views were different, that he didn’t think Black should be proud at all. If it had been anyone else, that would be what Aldon assumed. But, because it was Flint, based on what Aldon already knew about Flint, based on his own friendship with Flint, unbelievably … he almost thought the impostor theory was _more likely to be true._

And that would fit, too, with the fact that Black, or whoever Black was, was a halfblood. It would explain the glamour spells, it would explain why he didn’t want to go to the Hospital Wing, because Madam Pomfrey would have identified a glamour spell and removed it post-haste. It explained some of Black’s inconsistencies – if the real Black dreamed about being a Healer, then the Black Aldon knew at Hogwarts could hardly deny it, even if every one of his actions demonstrated a passion for potions. It was a perfect explanation, too, for some of the things he _said_. If he was a halfblood, it was perfect reason for why he didn’t think he could change politics. If he was a halfblood impostor, it would also explain his purposeful attempt to distract them from discussing his winter break. Really, it almost explained more than it didn’t. It was a neat explanation that fit with the lies, fit with Flint’s comments, fit with what Black said himself, fit with his contradictions.

But it was a _ridiculous_ explanation. If someone was impersonating Black, first, who was it? Where was the real Black? How would they possibly pull it off? And, most importantly, why? And yet, he couldn’t discount it as a possibility – it just fit too well, especially with Flint’s remarks.

He didn’t know enough. Based on his research, the _only_ thing he could say with reasonable certainty was that Black, the Black he knew, was not a pureblood. He couldn’t rule out the possibility that Black was a bastard child, like him, but there was also a distinct possibility, based solely on Flint’s words, that Black was an impostor and not the real Arcturus Rigel Black. But it was something, and for now, that something was enough. It was enough to know that he wasn’t the only halfblood at Hogwarts.

He looked up at the storming ceiling, and with a wave of his wand, he sent the clouds away and left a pale blue, clear, sky in its wake. 


	2. Chapter 2

 

By the time September 1st rolled around, Aldon was more than ready to return to Hogwarts. He had reviewed a few more contracts, negotiated a loan for an expansion of Madam Malkin’s to Hogsmeade, read a dozen more books (four of which he was interested in, eight of which he was reading to cover his actual interests), and eaten more coolly polite dinners with his parents than he thought he could stand. Not that his parents didn’t try; if he was fully honest with himself, it was more that, as time passed on, he found the gap between them growing broader and broader.

It was the knowledge of his own blood-status, the knowledge he gained from his unsanctioned books on magical theory and his secret subscription, through a French forwarding service, of a contraband American journal on magical theory. His beliefs were changing. He was – bluntly, frankly, honestly – no longer in support of pureblood supremacy. How could he be? He was probably not a pureblood. Black was not a pureblood. And the most reputable magical theorists agreed that pureblood supremacy was garbage. Blood-status did lead to some differences in magic, but those differences had little to do with power, skills, or abilities. His changing beliefs drove a wedge between them, one that, to be even more honest with himself, he didn’t dare mention in the current political climate. So, instead, he pretended, and he pretended, and when he was tired of pretending he went to his private parlour and called up thunderstorms, and then he returned to pretending.

It was wearying, and suffice it to say, he was happy returning to school. Especially because this year, aside from the usual entertainments of his classes and Slytherin House politics, there would be _Rigel Black_ to study, and he would be lying to himself if that wasn’t the biggest draw.

He had heard that Black had attended the Malfoy Summer Garden Party, but through what must have been the world’s greatest misfortune, he hadn’t seen him there. Though, he had spent much of the time interfering in Alice and Ed’s budding relationship, so there was that. Perhaps if he hadn’t spent most of the garden party annoying his friends for the sake of annoying them, he would have run into Black. It was his loss, and honestly, no one appreciated the services of a good chaperone nowadays anyway.

He had apologized, but even today, Alice was shooting him dark looks from across the carriage, her new Head Girl pin shining on her robes. Ed said she just needed some time to let things blow over, but then, Ed had forgiven him nearly three weeks ago, when he whipped out some Thunderbird feathers for him to use in their creature game. He thought Ed had transfigured them into hairs before giving them to Alice, but it had taken her ten days to identify them, so he had won the round.

With that thought in mind, he nearly collided with Black and his friends on his way to the Thestral-drawn carriages outside the Hogwarts Express.

“None of them can, Rigel.”

Black turned to his friend, a slight frown of confusion marring his face. Aldon’s core was buzzing – yes, this was still the Black he knew. In fact… was the buzzing stronger, this year? It felt stronger, but he couldn’t be sure. It had been a whole summer away, so perhaps he had just forgotten.

“What do you mean? You can see them, can’t you?”

The other boy, Nott, had an expression of distaste across his tanned face. “Yes, I can,” he said shortly, stepping into one of the carriages without explanation.

“What are you two talking about?” Malfoy broke in, scowling at them, as Pansy examined the carriages with some trepidation. “They’re horseless carriages!”

“No, they aren’t,” Aldon said, finding it high time to interrupt – they were blocking the route to the carriages, for one, and he didn’t think their argument would go anywhere, for another. And for a third, he was sure he would want to regulate what Pansy heard next. “Those beasts are called thestrals, Black. You aren’t imagining them, most people just can’t see them.”

“A fact they should be thankful for,” Ed added in a low rumble. Aldon didn’t need to look behind him to know that Ed and Alice were flanking him on either side, or to know the expression clouding Alice’s face.

Black narrowed his eyes at them. “But why –”

“Come on, Aldon,” Ed interrupted, his broad hand resting momentarily on Aldon’s shoulder and nodding in the direction of an empty carriage. “Let’s get inside.”

Aldon acquiesced easily, following his friends. He wasn’t surprised when Black made his sudden excuses to his friends and ran over to jump into their carriage, though Alice raised an eyebrow.  Black was flushed, ever so slightly, with embarrassment at his own rudeness.

“Why can only Theo and I see the – the thestrals?” he asked, polite to a fault, flushed as he was with his own daring.

Aldon looked him over subtly, if carefully. He did look a little different than he did last year – his face was sharper, his chin more pointed instead of round, but that could be explained by a summer away. The grey eyes, which were so arresting the year before, were possibly a lighter shade that previous. And yes, the glamour was still there, humming through his magic.

Alice was frowning, but Ed was already stepping in. “There’s no use trying to protect the boy if he can already see them,” he said gently, his usual rumble soft and heartfelt.

“Then why don’t you just tell me?” Black pressed, his voice plaintive, as much as he tried to hide it.

“Pansy didn’t need to hear,” Aldon replied coolly, studying the boy. Based on his reaction earlier, he must not have seen the thestrals before. Something _had_ changed this summer. He was curious. “She worries about her friends too much, and it would only upset her.”

Black shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “Are you going to tell me why, or just make vague generalities until I look it up myself?”

“It’s _death_ , okay?” Alice snapped, her lips pursed tightly. If it wasn’t for their close friendship, Aldon would have missed the tears in her eyes that still appeared when she remembered Isidore. “You can’t see a thestral until you’ve witnessed death.”

“And accepted it,” Ed added, pulling Alice’s hand to his lap and rubbing calming circles over the back of it, as she turned to stare out the window, blinking every so often. Aldon eyed the soft motion with something akin to jealousy, but a deep breath, and he was over it. He was happy for his friends, really, even if sometimes it did make him feel rather alone. He turned back to Black, who was staring thoughtfully out the window into the dark Hogwarts grounds.

“Black,” he started, serious. He turned to face him – Black’s face was young, sombre. “Would it be correct to assume that you were unable to see the thestrals last year?”

Black nodded slowly, grey eyes shuttered, and he was a million miles away, thinking on something only he could see.

“Our condolences,” Ed said, his voice a quiet rumble in silence.

“Thanks,” he replied absently, then started suddenly and shook his head. Aldon suppressed a curious look from crossing his face. “What? Oh, no, it wasn’t anyone I knew personally, I mean, I just happened to… see it.” He looked down and away. It was true.

Aldon had heard of no deaths within Society in the last year, or at least none that ought to have affected Black. Even with the Split, he would have heard about the death of anyone of note – word travelled fast in Society, and even if the Dark purebloods didn’t communicate directly with the Light faction, news like this travelled quickly through the Neutral faction.

“You just _happened_ to see the death of a complete stranger? Do you volunteer at St. Mungo’s with your surrogate uncle?”

“No,” Black replied, and it was true. “It was just an accident – I was out running errands and it just sort of… happened.”

It was a second before Aldon realized his mistake, Black having taken it in stride. Neither of Black’s surrogate uncles, Lord Potter or Mr. Lupin, volunteered at St. Mungo’s. It was his _father_ who was known for volunteering at the children’s ward there, and by all rights, Black should have corrected him. But he didn’t – either because he was too polite to do so, too distracted to do so, or perhaps he simply hadn’t noticed. It was interesting.

“So, can you all … sorry, that was insensitive,” Black said suddenly, glancing around the quiet carriage.

Aldon replied anyway. “I cannot, though Edmund and Alice can.” They had been together when Isidore died, or if Ed wasn’t there when she passed, he was there very shortly thereafter.

“Let’s talk about something else,” Ed said, his tone making it an order rather than a suggestion. Black, ever agreeable, nodded and moved onto discussing Pansy’s birthday gift. 

XXX

Aldon made a cursory effort to investigate who had passed over the summer that might have affected Black so, but to be honest, he didn’t have high hopes of finding anything. He kept an eye on Black, between his OWL courses and other work, but Black was as he was last year – a workaholic. He continued with his advanced Potions study with Professor Snape, and he carried on with the usual second year classes, studying with a large group of the other second-years. He spent an uncommonly large amount of his time at the Library or reading – both potions and Healing books, though the potions books tended to be considerably advanced and on esoteric details, whereas the Healing books seemed to be introductory textbooks, or little beyond introductory. Considering that Black had supposedly been interested in Healing even before Hogwarts, that didn’t make sense, but then, little about Black did.

He didn’t find that anyone of note that passed away in Society. There had been people who passed away, but not as many as one would expect, mostly elderly members of the respectable, if not noble, class. Most had passed away at St. Mungo’s, but Black had already denied that suggestion, so it wasn’t that. And Black, too, had said that it was an accident he had even seen it, that he was out for errands and he had just happened to see it, suggesting that it was an accidental death of a complete stranger. There had been no accidental deaths reported that entire summer. Still, perhaps Black made a habit of traversing the Muggle world, and had seen an accident there. Who knew?

With his increased attention on Black, though, he did notice a few more oddities. Black’s manners were close to flawless, but a little outdated, almost as though he had learned them from a book of pureblood etiquette. He bowed to the correct degree, he said the proper courtesies, but there was something wooden, rote, about his etiquette that was fluid and soft in his friends, like a second language when it should have been his first. Then again, his family was not in the usual Dark pureblood circles, so perhaps Lord Black didn’t put the emphasis on etiquette that most Dark families did.

Black made the Quidditch team, as a Beater. Beaters were usually the heaviest of Quidditch players, physically strong enough to defend their team from attacking Bludgers and send them against the other team. It was distinctly incongruous, because Black was so small, and visually he didn’t have any muscle. He also didn’t tan, ever, despite the fact that the other members of the Quidditch team tanned through their long hours of practice. Both of those suggested that Black’s glamour spell was extensive, covering even some aspects which would normally be considered positive – muscle was never a bad thing, and there was no reason to hide a tan. Unless hiding those were just a side-effect of hiding whatever it was he intended on hiding?

He hadn’t noticed it before – he hadn’t been paying enough attention, earlier – but Black’s accent was also subtly wrong. It wasn’t the same as his accent, it wasn’t the same as Pansy’s or Draco’s. It was slightly lower-class than theirs, sounding like a mix between theirs and the accents of respectable, non-noble families like the Bones, the Jones, the Abbotts. He supposed it was possible that Black’s accent was picked up more from his extended family members, like the Potters, but his accent should have sounded like Lord Black’s, really. Unless Lord Black’s accent had changed since the Split, which Aldon supposed was possible as well.

Then he learned that Black was a Parselmouth, and that was a different matter entirely.

Aldon had, essentially, two theories for how Black was a halfblood: First, Black was a byblow of the Lady Diana Black and a wizard of unknown parentage. This theory, in his opinion the more logical one, could explain the glamour spell, as well as a few other oddities. But it didn’t explain why Lord Black and Flint last year had said, truthfully, that he wanted to be a Healer when Black was clearly passionate about potions. It didn’t explain why Black was at Hogwarts, unless he, with unknown accomplices, was hiding his parentage for some reason.

The second theory was that Black was a halfblood impostor, and not, therefore, the _real_ Arcturus Rigel Black. This explanation would fit with Lord Black and Flint’s comments last year, with Black’s apparent passion for Potions but his supposed dream of being a Healer. It would fit with the glamour spell. It would fit with pretty much all of Black’s oddities. It didn’t explain where the real Black was, nor why, and it was frankly disturbing that, of Aldon’s two theories, the impostor theory actually fit better with the Healing and potions dichotomy.

Either way, if there was one thing that Aldon had researched since his epic adventure of being a probable halfblood started, it was magical inheritances and gifts. And, regardless of which theory was better, knowing that Black ( _this_ Black) was a Parselmouth was helpful, because it would tell him which Family Black was most likely descended from, if it wasn’t the Blacks themselves. Parselmouths were rare, and this gift was one that was passed along on the oldest wizarding lines. Even if the Hogwarts libraries didn’t contain the most up to date wizarding genealogies (he had the thought that Lord Dumbledore had removed most of them as being of non-educational value), it did contain enough on magical inheritances themselves for him to put together some pieces and identify the main wizarding families carrying the gift.

The oldest mention of Parselmouths he found, dating back to the 400s, were the famed Peverells from the Tales of Beedle the Bard. All three Peverells, Antioch, Cadmus and Ignotus, were known Parselmouths, though they were better known for the Deathly Hallows. Aldon wasn’t interested in fairy tales, but the Peverells _were_ a known wizarding Family through the Collapse, becoming extinct in the male line shortly before the founding of Hogwarts. They were the original Parselmouth family, and historians thought they were the family that had tamed and developed the gift.

Slytherin, in the 1100s, claimed direct descent from the Peverells in the female line, through Cadmus Peverell. Indeed, Slytherin had offered up his ability as his primary evidence for his noble descent, which could not be proven in any other way. The name, Slytherin, died out shortly after, but branch families of the Slytherins in the female line included the Farksons, the Sikes, and the Gaunts, all of which had reported Parselmouths. Unfortunately, the surviving Sikes had moved to America after the family Head allegedly sacrificed a herd of thestrals in a Dark ritual for immortality in 1862 and the whole family was pilloried in the streets, and the Gaunt line had ended with the deaths of Marvolo and Merope Gaunt in the 1940s.

The Farksons were extinct in the male line, now, though their last remaining descendant, one Morgana Farkson, a known Parselmouth, had married into the Black line in approximately 1900 – she would have been the Lord Sirius Black’s grandmother, and Arcturus Rigel Black’s great-grandmother. So it wasn’t unreasonable for Black to be a Parselmouth, so long as he was descended from the Blacks in the direct line.

The only _problem_ with that was that, if Black was a by-blow, he had to be one of the _Lady Diana’s_ , and not of Lord Sirius Black. And the Fawleys, a prominent, almost fanatical, Light family, had stringently avoided marrying the gift into their bloodline – even if it meant avoiding the prominent, powerful Light family known to carry the gift.

Aldon was surprised to discover that the only other prominent wizarding family known to produce Parselmouths were the Potters. Lord James Potter was a direct descendant of Hardwin Potter, who had married the last known surviving descendent of Ignotus Peverell, Iolanthe Peverell, in the 1200s, becoming noble and the Lord Peverell. Technically, and in the fussiest genealogies, the Potter family still held the Peverell title, being Lord and Lady Peverell, regardless of the fact that the title had been held by the Potters ever since. The Lady Iolanthe Peverell was reported to have been a Parselmouth, and since that time, Parselmouths cropped up in the Potter line approximately once a century. However, as Sir Charlus Potter, second-born son, bon vivant, dedicated bachelor and Parselmouth had said, in 1876, “It’s not a useful gift, and it seems to cause great panic and alarm when I use it, so it’s just not worth the trouble.” Since the Potters tended not to advertise or _use_ the gift, and since they were one of the most prominent Light families, most people, including him, had simply _forgotten_ that it was a gift passed down the Potter line.

For a moment, Aldon entertained the explosive thought that Black might be the by-blow of the Lady Black and Lord Potter, which would at least explain a glamour spell, since the Lords Potter and Black were close friends. But then he remembered that the Lord Potter was a pureblood, so if Lady Diana had had a child by the Lord Potter, it wouldn’t explain Black’s wild, halfblood, magic, and Black wouldn’t be a halfblood at all.

Frustrated, Aldon slammed the ancient inheritance genealogy shut, drawing a glare from Madam Pince. He ignored it, in favour of replacing the book on the shelf he had taken it from in the first place, then returned to his table and pulled open his own Magical Theory textbook to begin working on his essays. It was OWL year, after all, and the amount of schoolwork assigned was a bit much, even for him, and he _liked_ Magical Theory. Even if it did make people think him a little dull. What did he care what they thought of him? He was the bloody Rosier Heir, and he could like magical theory if he damn well liked.

The problem with the Parselmouth research was that, if he relied on the genealogies, it narrowed things down _too_ much. The two main lines that carried the gift in a traceable fashion were the Potters and the Blacks – the exact two families that he could effectively rule out. Really, if Black were Harriett Potter, known halfblood and Heiress to the House of Potter, it would make that much more sense. But Harriett Potter attended school abroad, and she was a girl, besides.

Well, wizarding genealogies weren’t reliable when it came to halfbloods, anyway. Surely there were other, untraced, descendants of the Peverells. Aldon shook his head and tucked away the research in his mental box for later thought.

XXX

When the first attack happened at Halloween, all Aldon could think was, _not again_.

He had been ignoring Professor Dumbledore’s speech in favour of watching his classmates. Pucey was laughing at something with Bletchley, while Bole was watching them with something like amusement; Alice and Ed were holding hands under the table, though Alice had a sharp eye on the younger students and Ed was still thoughtfully picking at his dessert; Pansy was doing a good impression of paying attention to the speech while actually staring at Black, who appeared to _actually_ be paying attention; and Malfoy was eating strawberry tarts, to which he seemed to have an unhealthy addiction.

Then the thunder of the explosion crashed through the hall, cutting Dumbledore’s speech short, and they heard the sound of crumbling, falling stone. Only the Slytherins seemed to possess the self-control to stay in their seats. Half the Gryffindors had jumped out of theirs, as had a third of the Hufflepuffs, and a chattering panic filled the Hall. He had the briefest moment to wonder how anyone expected to hear instructions over the fray, before the Headmaster ordered their evacuation to the common rooms.

It was only back in the common room that he had realized that Black was missing, as were Pansy and Malfoy. But it was less than fifteen minutes after the rest of the crowd returned, just as Alice was finishing the roll call, that they had reappeared.

“We were sidetracked,” Pansy had explained, shaking her head when she reached him, where he had been pacing a worried line. It was a lie, if only by omission, but Aldon guessed she simply didn’t want to talk about it. “It was a misunderstanding, really.”

Aldon had let the matter go, since the misunderstanding part did seem to be true, and it didn’t seem to be important. Still, he noticed that Pansy didn’t seem to be surprised when Professor Snape arrived and announced that a second-year Gryffindor had been injured in the explosion, and neither did she or her friends react on learning that he had been petrified.

He was not naïve enough to think that the Party would have stopped their efforts to pass the Marriage Law, as he was coming to call it. But he was more than a little concerned that apparently this method included _petrifying students_ , which seemed to be a singularly more dangerous and risky move than a mere illness. More worrying, however, none of his connections in the Party, or Alice’s, or Ed’s, came up with anything helpful or explanatory in the slightest. It seemed as though no one in the Party was even aware that anything should be happening.

Was it worse knowing that your parents, your family, saw you as a willing pawn in their political games? Not that Aldon had ever been at risk with the sickness last year – while the students first through third year were falling ill, it seemed that fourth-years and above were spared. He knew the intent was never for the children to be hurt or injured, but it seemed to him to be an imminently risky move, especially when one considered that the Malfoy scion had nearly died because of an unforeseen allergy to an ingredient in the required potions. Draco could not have been the only student with an allergy, or even other complications – surely being trapped in your own mindscape for weeks at a time would have long-term traumatic effects?

Or was it worse _not knowing_ whether your family had anything to do with it at all? The mere fact that he had _known_ the sickness was political, that it was under the control of one of the greatest wizards of the age, was its own sort of comfort. It had a very clear goal, to discredit Lord Dumbledore and pass the Marriage Laws. If these new attacks, these petrifactions, _weren’t_ the doing of the SOW Party, then whose doing was it? Did it even have a culprit? Was it possible that they would all be attacked?

Then the second attack happened, and he was firmly of the view that, no, it was worse not knowing.

They were celebrating the Slytherin win over Gryffindor, that night. To be blunt, Aldon was not a great Quidditch fan, but he made a point of keeping up with the Quidditch league results. It was always useful to _know_ Quidditch; it was popular across political lines, and an easy topic to use as distraction. And he did keep his smuggled Magical Theory journals hidden as Quidditch paraphernalia, so he had to know something.

He and Ed had brought out the bottle of Firewhiskey that they kept stashed in their room, which was quietly making its rounds through the upper years, Alice already having turned a blind eye to it so long as they didn’t cause any trouble. Aldon didn’t like Firewhiskey that much, though Ed did, and certainly Aldon would drink it. In his limited experience, he much preferred Butterbeer and wines. The common room was loud, buzzing with celebration – and the _BOOM_ of the explosion cut through it like glass.

There was a moment of silence, and Alice was in the centre of the room, motioning for the other Slytherin prefects to help her.

“Stay calm. I’m sealing the common room door. We have the extra wards and we will be safe within the common room. If anyone you know is inside their dorms already, go get them – I’ll be checking to see who is missing momentarily.”

Aldon cast a look around, curious even though his light haze. Pansy was here, sitting with Draco as he regaled his second-year friends with his Snitch capture for what must have been the eighteenth time that night, while the actual Snitch flew in lazy circles above the common room. He knew the other team members were present too, as they had been the first to partake of the Firewhiskey, and it took him an embarrassingly long time for him to realize: Where was Black?

He frowned, scanning the room again. Surely he had simply missed the boy in the hubbub. He looked over to Pansy’s group again, counting their heads – five. There was Pansy, Draco, Nott, Zabini and Bulstrode, though Draco and Pansy were beginning to look distinctly concerned. Neither was Black with the other Quidditch players. He nudged Ed casually with his shoulder.

“See Black anywhere?”

Ed glanced around surreptitiously, but a few minutes later, shook his head. “Perhaps he is in his dorm?”

“During his team’s celebration?”

Ed studied him, his dark eyes concerned, if a little curious. “I’m sure there’s no reason to worry, Aldon,” he said eventually, which wasn’t especially reassuring. “You know that Black likes his own company.”

Aldon sighed and nodded, leaving the topic be, but could he be blamed for keeping a careful eye on the common room door? Or, when Black reappeared through it and gave Alice the proper password, could he be blamed for giving in to his curiosity, excusing himself, and slipping closer to the group of second years that Alice was towing Black to?

“Do you know how worried you make people? Merlin, but you’re a lot of trouble.” Alice groused, but her heart wasn’t in it.

“Sorry, Selwyn,” he had replied sheepishly. “Snape detained me in his office while he went to investigate the noise, or I would have been back here as soon as it happened.”

That was a lie, for all that it was well-told, and Aldon knew it. Alice, though, simply rolled her eyes and went back to marking off her roster of students. Draco pushed Black a little further, and though he lowered his voice a notch, Aldon was still able to hear his words.

“I was looking for Adrian’s snake, if you really want to know. I couldn’t tell Snape that, because of course Adrian doesn’t have a snake. So if anyone asks, I needed a bit of air. It wasn’t a waste, though; I ended up being able to ask Snape and this recipe for Spurrier’s Solution, which I think was miscopied …”

That, too, was a lie, and Aldon had heard enough. Wherever Black was, he wasn’t with Snape, but since he knew the password and clearly wasn’t in any trouble, he guessed that Black had somehow been involved with the commotion, but not the cause of it. His guess? Black had probably heard the explosion and gone looking.

“Black is fine, I understand. Find out anything interesting?” Ed had asked mildly when Aldon returned to his side. His friend had retrieved the bottle of Firewhiskey, and was pouring himself another shot. No matter how much Ed drank, he never seemed to get drunk. It was really quite unfortunate.

“Very little,” Aldon replied, settling down beside his friend and reaching for the bottle. But he wasn't surprised, either, when Professor Snape appeared and told them all that a second-year Ravenclaw had been attacked and petrified.

He was also not surprised, the following days, to hear rumours that Black was the cause of the petrifactions. Alice had taken another of the second-years, Greengrass, publicly to task for starting the rumours, but the damage had been done. The rest of the school, Slytherin this time decidedly _not_ excluded, was already buzzing, and Aldon couldn’t help but be disturbed.

One had to be monumentally thick to believe that Black, of all people, was responsible for the attacks. The only proof against Black was that he wasn’t where he was supposed to be during either attack, with “where he was supposed to be” defined as “where everyone else was”. But anyone who thought about it should have realized that Black often wasn’t where everyone else was; fundamentally, Black was a person who, regardless of anything, marched to the beat of his own drum. As should have been obvious, from his first days at Hogwarts, Black enjoyed his own company more than most Slytherins, a trait only exacerbated by the fact that Professor Snape had granted him his own Potions lab. While no one could strictly call him _anti-social_ , and he did have and spend time with friends, neither did he feel the need to travel the castle in a pack like the other students did.

And then there was Black’s character. Halfblood, possibly byblow or impostor or whoever he was, Black cared about the people around him. He didn’t show it – if anything, he tended to be distant, which Aldon quite happily attributed to the fact that Black _knew_ he was a halfblood and needed to keep it secret. But if one watched Black, really watched him, it quickly became apparent how much he _did_ care for his friends, his acquaintances, and even strangers. In the second-year study circle, it was obvious that Black provided more help than he received, never asking for anything further. He always found the time to help people with their problems, if only they could find him, without asking for anything in return. He even went and visited Neville Longbottom, in the Hospital Wing, even though the other boy was petrified and that, as far as Aldon could figure out, they weren’t even particularly close friends. And yet, the rumours themselves, as implausible and ridiculous as they were, weren’t even the most disturbing thing.

The most disturbing thing was how little Black cared about the rumours. He saw no need to defend himself, and seemed surprised, if slightly embarrassed, when his friends did it for him. He never insulted the people who whispered behind his back, and he never got angry at the people who blamed him openly.

Black just kept moving forward, and Aldon couldn’t help but find that admirable. 

XXX

There were no more attacks before the winter break, and Aldon was happier than he expected to be for the return home. Normally, home would be isolated, lonely, breakfast with his mother and dinner with his parents notwithstanding. But this year, it was the Rosiers’ turn to host the New Year’s Gala. He quite expected that Rosier House would be busy with preparations each day, and that he would be quickly put to work in the ballroom for an event that he didn’t care for. True, last year’s Gala had been eminently useful politically speaking, but he couldn’t say the experience had been _fun_. This year, the Heirs would be invited as well, and there would be even more eyes on him. _Joy_.

Perfunctory family greetings aside, Aldon was responsible for charming the balconies. He was _not_ , thankfully, responsible for cleaning them, only for the maintenance of the safety wards and the heating runes. He took the opportunity to install some listening spells, too, keyed to himself – one never knew what some unsuspecting persons might see fit to discuss away from the crowd.

Even with the additional work, though, he finally had time to read the last three Magical Theory journals that had arrived while he was at school, in the relative safety of his parlour. He didn’t expect much to have changed (it hadn’t), but Magical Theory was the backbone of all magic, and new ideas were always worth knowing. From America, there had been a paper positing a magical equivalent to “television”, which he couldn’t say he understood, but which he understood to be a popular Muggle entertainment, like the Wizarding Wireless but with portraits too. From Australia, on the other end, there had been developments in the theory behind linking spells, which the researchers, rather unrealistically in his opinion, proclaimed would one day allow for instantaneous communications across the world. Not that there weren’t items like that already, there were, such as the rare Two-Way mirrors, but those were made when an item with identical magical properties was broken in two. The two halves would maintain a connection to each other, but only a rare item would be able to take the spells to connect them permanently to carry anything between them. What the Australian wizards were proposing was an item that could be artificially produced, which could link to _any other_ of the things worldwide. Still, the ideas were interesting, and worth thinking about even if he _did_ think they were a little fanciful.

The evening of the Gala, Aldon found himself in brand new formal robes – god forbid the Rosier Heir wear the same formal robes two Galas in a row – in a plain dark blue that brought out similar shades in his hair. As the Rosier Heir, he was in the reception line, smiling mindlessly and mouthing polite nothings for the better part of two hours. The first hour was the worst – the first hour was when people who had nothing better to do, and they were always the most inquisitive, annoying, and low-ranked. Even as time passed and more Families arrived, the occasional glimpse of his friends in the reception line did little to alleviate his deep and pressing boredom. By the time the Lestranges arrived, a clear ten minutes after everyone else, and he was finally dismissed, he needed a _drink_.

The ensemble was warming up, the dancing was about to begin, but Aldon had no interest in joining, at least at this moment. The first dance was reserved for persons with a _special_ relationship, anyway – if he danced with anyone, it would suggest a particularly close relationship or at least a desire to be closer to that person, and that was not an impression he wished to give anyone. For him, if he wanted to dance the first dance, that meant dancing with family, and his only female cousin of the appropriate age was _Alice_ , and he had no doubt that she was already on the floor with Ed. Ed had written him that winter and suggested that his proposed suit was being well received, and while he was not yet of age to make a formal proposal, it was only a matter of time. Aldon had felt the smugness rolling off his letter and scrawled back brief, heartfelt congratulations and a reminder that this would make them, technically, cousins by marriage.

He needed a drink. He shook the memory away idly and ducked and wove his way to the refreshments table. The _adults’_ refreshment table, thank you very much. In a need to outperform the Selwyns’ Gala last year, his parents had decided to mix the fairy wine into a deep red punch, which struck Aldon as both lavishly extravagant and a disgusting waste, so he may as well partake in it.

He took a glass, served helpfully by Dotty, one of their house-elves who wagged her finger at him in disapproval, and drained it in two large gulps. He held the glass out hopefully to Dotty, who frowned at him.

“You is going to be very ill if you is drinking like that,” she scolded lightly. “You is better not to let Lady Rosier be seeing you like this.”

“I know,” Aldon replied, sighing wistfully in a way that he knew the kindly house-elf wouldn’t resist. She would stop him, of course, if there was any risk that he would actually cause an embarrassment to the House of Rosier, but he could take a few glasses of watered down fairy-wine without any trouble. “I’ll be slower with this glass, I promise, Dotty.”

The house-elf sighed in reply, pouring him a glass. “Go on, I is knowing you is not liking these events.”

Aldon grinned, a true smile, and waved his fingers to her as he turned away. He had only taken a few steps when Alice tapped him on the shoulder.

“Where’s Edmund, do you know?” she asked lightly, but her expression was annoyed.

Aldon shrugged, raising an eyebrow, and taking another sip of his punch. “I expected him to be with you for the first dance. I just came from the receiving line.”

“He was _supposed_ to be, but the first dance is about to begin, and I can’t find him,” Alice scowled. “And you know that the arrangement between us cannot be formalized until he is of age, and meanwhile my parents expect me to continue being _open to other offers_ , and Benjamin Rourke is hounding me, as if his Book of Copper nobility meant anything compared to the Rookwoods’ higher social position and wealth …”

Aldon rolled his eyes at her. “Your great-aunt didn’t mind Book of Copper. The _Rosiers_ are Book of Copper.”

“The Rosiers hold a much better social position than the Rourkes do,” Alice snorted. “But, if Edmund does not appear in the next two minutes, you have to dance with me. You’re family.”

“Alice…” Aldon winced, just thinking of the expression on Ed’s face, but reached out and set his glass on a table. A muttered ward later, and he knew no one would be touching his glass, which was now keyed to him.

“I _refuse_ to dance with any other suitor, Aldon. And you’re my cousin.”

“You better explain this to Edmund, later, then,” he said finally, allowing Alice to tow him onto the dance floor.

He didn’t need to think about the steps of the waltz. Normally, there would be conversation between the partners about something or other, but Alice seemed content to scowl and follow the steps mechanically, so instead he opened his ears and listened. His listening spell on one of the balconies caught his attention – Ed was there, his mountain rumble distinctive. And was that Black, propositioning him? Hah. Well, at least that explained where both Black and Ed were, though he heard Ed politely excusing himself to return to the ballroom. In retrospect, he should have found a way to identify the listening spells, such that he could tell _which_ balcony they were on.

There were conversations here and there about the Marriage Law – nothing interesting, nothing he didn’t already know. Just more speculation on when the law might pass, the potential matches it would offer, lies here and there as people tried to show off how close they were to Lord Riddle. He caught sight of Sirius Black charming a series of elderly women, all eager to catch up with him. Pansy was on the floor too, dancing with a cousin, while Malfoy seemed to have poor luck and was dancing with the Minister’s daughter, holding her at arms-length. He spotted a group of upper-year Slytherins in a corner, uniformly avoiding the first dance.  

He retrieved his glass of fairy-wine punch afterwards, nodding as Alice excused herself to make nice with some of her more elderly relations. The thankful thing about being the host family was that the usual polite greeting requirements were finished through the dreadfully long reception line. Instead, he wandered through the room, listening for anything interesting or useful.

All he heard were lies. Lies about the progress the Marriage Law. Blown-up lies on potential alliances. Slanderous lies for a few Families, clearly made in the hope that they themselves might rise politically by throwing others down. He had snorted at some of the last – aside from the usual rumours about affairs with Muggleborns, a few were patently ridiculous. Who _really_ believed that the Bulstrodes were in bed with the International Confederation of Wizards and allowing the economic sanctions to pass? If anything, Sir Phillip Bulstrode’s good character and mild-mannered negotiating skills were the only thing that stood between Wizarding Britain and _worse_ sanctions.

Ed found him as he finished his third glass of punch, staring curiously up at one of the closed balconies, just as most of his annoyance was finally beginning to drain away. He had opened _seven_ of their balconies, he was sure. Seven was a good number, his mother had said. Fortuitous. Propitious. That’s why they had opened seven of them, but one of the balcony doors was shut.

“How many glasses is that, Aldon?”

“Not that many, and it’s watered down anyway,” he replied, even though was starting to hit him. It hadn’t been _that_ watered down, he supposed – just enough to wreck the fact that it was fairy wine, but it was strong enough. Which was a _good_ thing, he reminded himself. He had no idea how he was supposed to go through these events without a drink.

“Enough to dance with my Alice?”

Aldon winced – Ed’s voice was cool, colder than he had heard for some time, and he hated hearing it turned on him. “You know Alice and I are cousins, Ed. You weren’t there.” A short pause. “I _am_ sorry, you know.”

Ed sighed deeply, and Aldon supposed that was as good a sign as any that he was forgiven. Or, at least, that Ed was kicking himself for not being present at the first dance. Who knew? Aldon looked sideways at his friend, solid and square, and caught Ed examining him closely. Was Ed was trying to assess how drunk he was? He wasn’t _that_ drunk. Ed worried too much.

“Do I now?” Ed replied, his voice warming with a slight laugh, and Aldon realized he had said the last part out loud. Damn. This was not a convincing display of his sobriety. Aldon looked back up at the closed balcony. He knew they had opened it earlier, or at least that they were intending to, because he had spelled and warded it not even three days ago.  And he still had _seven_ listening spells keyed to him, not six.

“I’m going to get some air. On that balcony.” Aldon pushed himself off the wall that he had been leaning on, walking in what he thought was a perfectly steady line on the way to the balcony. Even if he did have to think about it harder than usual.

“The closed one?” Ed said, keeping pace easily.  

“Mother opened it, I’m curious as to why it’s closed now…” Aldon ducked a few people on his way up the stairs, and while he wasn’t as graceful as usual about it, neither did he think he showed anything untoward. He pried at the doors, getting caught on the latch, but a moment of struggle later and he pushed both doors open, letting the light and noise of the ballroom spill into the cold night’s air. Not that cold, though – he had done the warming runes himself, and they were quite well done, he thought, nodding to himself. “You see? I told you Mother opened _seven_ of the ballroom balconies, not _six_.”

“As always, the world bends to your superior understanding of it,” Ed replied, peering out into the night. There was something in his voice, though – he had drawn the words out, and there was just a hint of a laugh, underneath the stone. Aldon stared up at him, frowning slightly, but he could barely make out Ed’s face in the sudden darkness. He couldn’t read it – he thought he could normally, even in low lighting, but it was especially difficult at the moment. Still, there was something about his voice, the itch in his core… and it hit him in an instant.

“Are you _patronizing_ me?”

“Would I dare?” Ed replied, in the same voice.

Aldon laughed, not upset in the slightest. To be honest, he liked Ed’s patronizing voice. It was nice, and much better than his cold voice. “I think you are patronizing me. Well, if you’re already being sardonically patient with me, perhaps I should refrain from the refreshments table for a bit.”

“That would be wise,” Ed replied, gazing into the darkness outside the balcony. Oh, no, not outside the balcony – at a small form curled up and sitting against the stone railing. He couldn’t tell who it was, visually, but only one person made his core buzz just to look at him, and Aldon couldn’t help but let a silly smile cross his face as he walked over, crouching in front of him.

“Aha! There’s our wayward charge,” he said cheerfully. Halfblood? Definitely. Byblow? Possible. Impostor? Also possible. Black was so _interesting_ , especially because he lied all the time, and not like other peoples’ lies. He lied like he felt like he needed to, and his lies were always tinged with soft regret, and sometimes he didn’t really lie, he just didn’t say anything at all. He wondered what Black’s face really looked like. “I _thought_ it was suspicious that one of the opened balconies was darkened and closed, and I said to myself, “who is the most suspicious person at the party?” And then I answered myself, “Why, Rigel Black, of course!” And lo and behold, here you are! Am I not _terribly_ clever?”

His gift rang with his own lie, and he ignored it. It _could have_ been true. “Didn’t I tell you not to wander too far, little imp? I told you Ed and I would find you. Didn’t you think we’d find you?”

Black merely looked puzzled, raising an eyebrow and glancing over at Ed.

“Don’t pay him any mind, Black. Aldon has had too much punch.”

“I have not,” Aldon interjected, but the other two ignored him. “I have had exactly the right amount of punch, I will have you know.” A pause, then he vaguely remembered what he caught on his listening spell earlier and smiled widely. “Is it true that you propositioned Ed tonight?”

Black looked away, a sign of guilt if there was one. “Just a misunderstanding, Rosier.”

“Don’t call me that,” Aldon replied, a slight laugh in his voice. “You should have come to me, you know. Ed is such a tease, but I wouldn’t have left you out here in the cold…”

“I think you’ve said enough, Aldon,” Ed interrupted him, with that characteristic lilt in his voice that came with embarrassment. Ed was surprisingly sensitive about his preferences, which was odd considering that Society deemed it rude to prefer one gender over the other. Ed pulled him gently, but firmly, to his feet.

“Oh, don’t be cross with me Ed, you know I hate that. Didn’t I tell you I was sorry about Alice? She only danced with me because you weren’t there, old boy, even I could see-” The world spun, suddenly, and Aldon staggered slightly before Ed caught him.

“That’s enough, Aldon. What _am_ I going to do with you?”

“I don’t care, only don’t be cross with me, Ed.” He leaned up, struck by sudden impulse, and gave Ed a smacking kiss to his cheek. “There, now you can’t be angry with –” 

XXX

Aldon woke up to the feeling on a small hand across his mouth, which was so novel in and of itself that his more… paranoid reactions didn’t come into play. And it was a good thing, too – as his eyes focused, and his mind registered the persistent buzz in his core, he realized it was Black.

“It’s Rigel Black,” the boy said, as if it wasn’t entirely obvious. He leaned over to whisper in Aldon’s ear. “You’re on one of the balconies at your family’s mansion. Rookwood left you out here to … sleep off your state of mind.”

Aldon glanced pointedly down at the hand covering his mouth, though he quite suspected he would enjoy these types of games in the right circumstances. Black was visibly suppressing a laugh as he glanced off the balcony. “In the next balcony over, my cousin Bellatrix and her husband are … indisposed. I’d rather they not notice us here.”

Aldon widened his eyes in glee, focusing on his listening spells – and true enough, one of them carried the characteristic sounds of a trysting couple. He sat up, pushing Black’s hand away. “Oh, Mother will have a fit when she hears.”

“Shhh!” Black frowned at him.

“Oh, desist, Black, we are downwind, obviously.” Aldon rolled his eyes, though the sounds were becoming louder and more insistent even without his listening spell. He suspended that particular listening spell and started weaving a ward to insulate them from the noise. He supposed he must have been more drunk than he thought, but wasn’t that always the way? His mind was much clearer, much better able to handle the careful dance of lies that conversation with Black would entail. “Besides, we’re wizards, in case you’ve forgotten. So, Edmund dumped me in your jurisdiction, did he? I can’t believe he endured that kiss for a full two seconds before _Somnium_ -ing me. That’s a good half-second longer than last time.”

“Last time?” Black asked, skeptically, if a little surprised.

Aldon grinned, catching his reluctance to talk. “It’s a tradition, at this point. I get sloshed after a ridiculously small amount of liquor, Edmund puts up with me until I become overly friendly, then I’m out like a light until my mind returns to itself. He’s really getting quite good at the Sleeping Hex, you know – I barely felt it that time.”

Black made a non-committal noise, leaning back against the stone railing.

“Oh, I’ve made you uncomfortable, haven’t I? Was it when I asked if you’d made a pass at Edmund, or when I made a veiled one at you shortly thereafter?”

Black winced, and looked away, gazing back at the closed doors to the ballroom.

“Ah, the second one, then?” He was teasing; he supposed Black was a little young, and with his secrets, the thought of a close relationship with anyone was probably unwelcome. Even with Draco and Pansy, he was rather distant, telling them little about himself, for obvious reasons. But as a probable halfblood – the only other halfblood at Hogwarts, in fact – Aldon didn’t think those rules applied to him.

Still, Black didn’t know that. Aldon sighed, bowing mockingly from where he sat. “My apologies for making designs on your virtue, Mr. Black. Sometimes my facetiousness runs away with my good sense after a drop or two.”

“If you know, then why do you keep drinking?” Black turned back to look at him, silver eyes gleaming in the darkness, Aldon’s magic buzzing. “Especially at a party like this?”

Aldon realized that there was a pillow behind him. How thoughtful of Edmund. He picked it up, tucking it behind him. “One day, when you grow up and hate your family too, you’ll drink at _their_ parties and impertinent little whelps like you will ask _you_ why.”

Black frowned at him. “I could never hate my family.”

“You say that now,” Aldon snorted, eyeing him carefully. “Just wait until your adolescent hormones inform you otherwise. There comes a day when you see your family for what they really are, and there isn’t a person on Earth who wouldn’t be in that moment … disappointed.”

Black was silent for a few minutes, his gaze looking away into the darkness. His expression was blank – not studiously blank, not carefully blank, but a thoughtful blank, and Aldon thought he could see something dark flashing across his eyes. “I don’t know…” he started slowly, but fell silent again for another few seconds. He sighed. “If I don’t hate them by now, I don’t think I ever will. People don’t grow worse over time, really, and I haven’t been living with my eyes closed for twelve years. I’ve never been one to see people as better than they really are, even if I care for them. I know my family, Rosier, and I accept their shortcomings.”

Aldon’s lips quirked into a half-smile. So there was some distance between Black and his family, was that it? Was it because his family knew and put him up to pretending to be a pureblood, like Aldon? Or was it the opposite? And yet, Black specifically said that he cared for them, and that was true, too.

“You accept them, but you don’t _like_ them,” he summarized. “Deep down, you resent them, just a little. That’s not a bad thing; it’s natural, and inevitable. You’re lucky, if what you say is true, because you’re the kind that became accustomed to your family’s imperfections over time. For others, it hits all at once, in an instant of shattering clarity, and after that it’s almost impossible to summon the kind of acceptance you describe.”

He was thinking, of course, of that dreadful summer where he discovered the truth of his family, but there was no way for Black to know that.

“They seem very nice,” Black offered.

“Don’t they?” Aldon looked down at his hands, at his perfectly manicured fingernails. “Funny. When I first met you, I thought you seemed very ordinary. I guess we’d both be wrong, wouldn’t we?”

It was a lie, but it was necessary one. Black made efforts to appear ordinary – so much was obvious from his behaviour. And Aldon had no way of explaining how he was intrigued from the first moment he met him, because the only reason Black had drawn so much of his attention was his glamour spell. And he could only reveal how he knew _that_ if he revealed his own gift. And revealing his own gift meant a risk revealing his own blood-status, which he wasn’t prepared to do – not even to Black.

Black shrugged, non-committal. “I wouldn’t know if I was wrong, but I don’t think you were. I am ordinary.”

“And I suppose _extraordinary_ things simply happen around you without your impetus, hmm?”

“Yes,” Black said, steadfast, then sighed. “Don’t hate your family, Rosier. I know it’s presumptuous of me to say so, but … my father spent his whole life hating his family. He met his own brother tonight for the first time since Mum’s death, and they barely knew what to say to one another. It’s satisfying, hate, but it doesn’t really help anything.”

“Neither does pretending to love when the feeling is gone,” Aldon replied, looking at him pointedly. “Is that what you do, Rigel Black? Pretend?”

“I wouldn’t know how, Rosier. Acting was never really my strong suit.”

The jab in Aldon’s core was so sharp he nearly choked, but instead breathed in a long, deep breaths until the sensation went away. “Irony must be thick in the air tonight. And don’t call me that.”

“It bothers you?” Black asked, raising an eyebrow at him. “That’s the second time you’ve said that to me tonight.”

“Yes,” Aldon replied, blowing out the last deep breath he had taken in. “It does.”

Black didn’t say anything, choosing instead to look out over the dark gardens again, while Aldon fell silent. The silence stretched a few moments, while Aldon considered what he knew, what he didn’t know. He had exhausted every way of finding out what he wanted to know by observation alone. There was only so much information he could gather by waiting, by watching, by eavesdropping at key moments.

Black was so _interesting_. At first, it was just his glamour that attracted his attention, then it was his magic, and the obvious secrets the boy was hiding. Aldon liked secrets, he always had, and of course those were a big draw. Then there was the fact that Black was so clearly a halfblood, a halfblood like _him_ , one of _two_ halfbloods in the pureblood-only Hogwarts, and there was Black himself. Secrets aside, anti-social nature aside, Black was so unequivocally _good –_ he was good to his friends, his acquaintances, and even to people to whom he had no reason to be good. And he was strong – he walked crowds of people who were convinced he was behind the petrifactions, every day, without worrying about what they thought, without letting it detract from the things he cared about. But he was also dark – his very secrets made him dark, put a wall between him and his friends, and Aldon _saw_ that wall, _saw_ that slight wistfulness, _saw_ that longing for something closer. In that instant, Aldon made a choice.  

“My friends call me Aldon.”

“We’re not really friends.”

“How unflinchingly honest you are, Rigel.” Aldon laughed, pointedly using his given name. Rigel. Rigel. Not Black, but Rigel. If he thought about Rigel as Black, then he would never make the needed adjustment. Rigel might be right, they weren’t really friends, but that would change. He intended to see to it that it did.

“My last name doesn’t really bother me,” Rigel replied mildly. “Feel free to use it.”

“You become awfully prickly once you think someone is getting too close. Did you make it this hard for Draco and Pansy?”

A silence, then a slightly sheepish look came across Rigel’s face. “I think… I was worse, actually. Perhaps I should apologize.”

Aldon snorted, then waved off his concerns dismissively. “Don’t. It would belittle the prize the won in outlasting you. In any case, you should never apologize for the past, only do things differently in the future.”

When they returned to the ballroom, Aldon was only slightly surprised that rather than making his excuses and finding his own friends, Rigel followed him as he made his way through the crowded room to where Alice, Ed, Adrian Pucey and Lucian Bole were standing. They exchanged comments about OWLs, but Aldon couldn’t say he was particularly concerned about his. He did well in most of his courses, even the ones he actively disliked, like Herbology, and most of his electives were different from the others’ anyway. He had always been the odd one out, of him and Alice and Ed. He liked _theoretical_ classes, and when it came time to pick elective courses, he picked the three most theoretical courses possible: Magical Theory, Ancient Runes and Arithmancy.

It was only because he hadn’t been following the conversation that Aldon was first to see _him_ approaching their circle. Ed was fastest to pick up on his blanked expression, and a rough silence fell around the circle. Caelum Lestrange nodded to him in polite acknowledgement, his motion smooth, elegant, while Aldon’s reply was a little delayed, stiff. He stepped politely out of the way, allowing him to join the group, even though he knew it was a bad idea.

Lestrange didn’t attend Hogwarts. He had heard that the famed Black madness, which had skipped so many of the other Blacks, had found a home in Bellatrix Lestrange, nee Black. Her marriage to Rodolphus Lestrange had been, not poorly received, but not welcomed, either. The Lestranges were noble, Book of Gold, but were known to be rather extremist. Their family motto, _authoritas intra puritas_ , which was the absolute worst fake Latin Aldon had ever had the displeasure to see in a family motto, said it all – they believed in power, and they believed in purity.  The Lestranges had supported Lord Riddle from the very beginning, when the Party was still the Cure Our World Party, pushing for more extreme measures than the SOW Party ever had. They stayed with the Party after it transitioned into the SOW Party, but continued to advocate for more extreme measures.

Once Rodolphus Lestrange became Head of the Lestrange Family, Lady Bellatrix played a greater and greater role in the Family’s politics and businesses, pushing the Lestranges even farther away from the Party line. It had been her idea, Aldon had heard, that their Heir attend school at Durmstrang because Hogwarts was still polluted with teachers of less than pure blood or teachers of part Creature blood. It made no difference that the teachers in question, including McGonagall, Snape, and Flitwick, were stalwarts in their field. To the Lestranges, nothing mattered other than their blood. Even before finding out he was probably a halfblood, the Lestranges’ beliefs had made him uneasy – now they outright made him feel ill.

In terms of family wealth, the Lestranges had once been very wealthy, but it was said in the business world that neither Lord Rodolphus nor Lady Bellatrix had a head for business. Yet, they were far too proud to ever ask for guidance, and while they maintained appearances, Aldon’s father had mentioned that their businesses were eating into their capital, year by year. He estimated the Lestranges would be destitute within the decade.

Unfortunately, Caelum Lestrange was also Aldon’s second cousin, as his great-aunt Druella was Caelum’s maternal grandmother. It was therefore Aldon’s responsibility to make the introductions, which he did blandly, reluctantly, hoping against hope that meaningless pleasantries would prevail.

He hoped in vain. It wasn’t even a full minute before the illusion of politeness shattered. Lestrange had never cared strictly about pureblood etiquette, so he stood, resigned, while Lestrange had at go at Rigel, whose face blanked politely but who gave as good as he got. And, just as quickly as it started, it ended.

“You tell that bloodtraitor that if he thinks he can make nice in our ballrooms and then go home to _fuck_ his _filthy werewolf whore_ and _laugh_ with his _bloodtraitor boyfriend_ and that _mudblood bitch_ … well, some of us would _savour_ the chance to correct his thinking.”

“Lestrange!” Aldon said firmly, stepping forward as he spotted Lucian gripping the back of Adrian’s dress robes. Surely there was protocol for a member of the host family to intercede when two guest families crossed the line into open mudslinging. But, before he could pull Lestrange back, a spell forced Lestrange back a solid five feet. Or, perhaps _forced_ was a bad word to use; the spell _moved_ him back, precisely and firmly. And, perhaps _spell_ , too was a bad word, because Aldon didn’t recognize whatever Rigel had done as an actual spell. If anything, it looked like pure, almost elemental, magic.

He didn’t miss the fact that Black hadn’t used a wand for it, either. Or said anything. And, judging by the briefest flash of surprise across his face, it wasn’t something Black had intended, consciously, to do either, but it was quickly replaced with a gleam of satisfaction. Aldon wasn’t even sure if it was accidental magic at this point, or just plain wild magic. If Rigel hadn’t intended it, it was surely accidental magic, and the sort of control that was displayed, that was wild.

There was a moment of silence as they all stared at each other, before Rigel excused himself to find Draco. Aldon and the others, too, made gentle excuses and left Lestrange standing, in the middle of a circle that no longer existed.

There was little else of interest, that night; no particularly juicy tidbits of information. He found out several cheating spouses through his listening spells, but no one of importance. Most of the rest was without context, useless. A bit of a waste of effort, really. He did manage to catch Rigel before he left, apologizing for Lestrange’s conduct, and warning him as he did so – even if Black didn’t know it, the magic that he did was so clearly wild, so clearly not pureblood magic, and he couldn’t help but worry a little for him. He could run interference on this matter, this time, since he had been there – a few carefully spoken words to Ed and Alice, and they would have it quietly pressed on the others not to discuss it because it might distress Rigel, but he could not be there forever.

If Rigel wanted to continue the charade of being a pureblood, he would need to learn how to control his magic, and fast. 

XXX

Returning to school was like a splash of cold water. It was painfully obvious that news of the attacks had spread, and a few students had been pulled out for the rest of the year. No one in Slytherin – it seemed that most Slytherins assumed, for no good reason whatsoever, that they would be untouched. It was mainly Ravenclaws who were pulled out, though a few of the Hufflepuffs and even a few Gryfffindors were gone. With upcoming OWL and NEWT examinations, though, none of the fifth or seventh years had been pulled out.

For the fifth-year Slytherins, January meant required career counselling. The other Houses, Aldon heard, didn’t worry about it until March. Aldon didn’t think it mattered overly much; having the counselling in January meant an extra six weeks to study if one had to rework their OWL plans, but since his plans were to do a Mastery in Magical Theory, he didn’t think he would have much to worry about. He would need an “O” in Magical Theory, but otherwise, his regular grades should suffice.

He entered Professor Snape’s office for his required meeting without any real concern, taking a seat in the lone chair placed across from the professor’s desk.

“Mr. Rosier,” Snape greeted him, glancing down at the parchment in front of him. Aldon was too far away to see what the parchment was, but he guessed that they were probably his grades over the last four years. He shifted uncomfortably in his chair; he was unused to having others look at his marks. “Have you given thought to your future career?”

“I would like to do a Mastery in Magical Theory, sir,” Aldon replied, calm. He had consistently good marks, including straight “O”s in Magical Theory, and no reason to expect that he wouldn’t qualify for a Mastery program. The best Mastery programs were abroad, though, and while he did think his parents would need some _persuasion_ , a proper Heir did traditionally attend advanced schooling. And, if things went badly, a contingency that he now always had to plan for, Magical Theory had applications in Ward Construction. At least he would have some useful skills if it all went to hell.

He staunchly ignored the draw that going abroad was starting to have on him. He had been abroad, a few times – trips to Paris, to Rome. But it would be different, going alone, going to _live_ there, if only for a few years. A few years in which he could read all the journals he wanted, in which he would be able to freely talk about the ideas on Magical Theory now swirling around in his head, swirling around the Magical Theory community. He would be able to reference his gift, without worrying about how it would be perceived, because he wouldn’t be one of two halfbloods in a school of hundreds that banned halfbloods. Maybe no one would even care, except academically, about his blood status. Maybe he would even find someone else with the truth-gift. Maybe.

He squashed the feeling down, hard.

Snape sighed, looking up from Aldon’s grades, plastered on the desk. He wore a stern, serious expression, but his eyes were not unkind. “I had thought so. However… How much do you know about … the international political situation, at present?”

Aldon blinked, surprised. He noted that he was leaning forward in his chair, and corrected his posture. “What do you mean, sir?”

Snape folded his hands on his desk and seemed be thinking about how to phrase what he needed to say. “Well, you no doubt know that Wizarding Britain is under a number of sanctions from the International Confederation of Wizards for its position on blood purity and pureblood supremacy,” he said delicately. “And magical theory is one of the fields which is … shall we say, unusually impacted by these policies.”

Ah. Was that it? “I am aware that the international consensus on many topics in Magical Theory … differs than the positions currently espoused by our government.”

Snape nodded, though his eyes were careful. “In the normal course, and in years past, you could have pursued your mastery within Wizarding Britain, but the faculty of the Magical Theory department at the Merlin Institute for Advanced Study was dismissed two years ago for gross insubordination and for failing to “teach both sides”, as they say. In any case, for at least a decade prior, the faculty of that department had been reduced significantly and the program had suffered. If you are serious about a Mastery in Magical Theory, you will need to go abroad. What do you know about the standing of a Hogwarts education internationally?”

Aldon blinked at the change of subject. “I understood that Hogwarts provided the best general education of all the wizarding schools.”

Snape smiled, but it was a slightly mocking, if bitter, smile. “That is not wholly incorrect – Hogwarts does have an excellent reputation in core areas such as Transfiguration, Charms, and Potions. However, to say that we provide the _best_ general education would be a rather significant overstatement. We are not known for our creativity in spellcasting, our experimentation, or for producing researchers, though the latter is partially because of the state of research funding through the Ministry. Politically, since the British Wizarding Examination Authority is run through the Ministry of Magic, it may be difficult for you to gain entrance to a reputable Mastery program in Magical Theory with a Magical Theory NEWT.”

There was a long silence. Aldon didn’t have anything to say. He looked down at the parchment holding his grades. They were good grades, but if they didn’t count for anything, well…

“I… see,” he said.

“I am not saying it is impossible, Mr. Rosier, stop looking so defeated,” Snape snorted. “You have good grades generally, and it is doable. I only say this to prepare you, and to provide context for my advice. I strongly recommend that you play to Hogwarts’ strengths, so NEWTs in Charms, Transfigurations, and Potions will help. I see you have been averaging “E”s in all three classes; that is fine for both Charms and Transfiguration. I, however, only accept students with a “O” into my NEWT-level class, so you will need to focus in my class this year. I believe you are capable of an “O” in your Potions OWL if only you would stop being so bloody squeamish about handling the ingredients.

“For your other courses, obviously, I recommend _not_ taking Magical Theory at the NEWT-level. Professor Newman does his best at the OWL-level, but he is under close observation by the Ministry and the topics explored in the NEWT-level are far more controversial. Instead, I strongly recommend you enroll in his Curse-Breaking course, in which he explores some of the concepts that ought to properly be in Magical Theory, but with less Ministry oversight, as well as Professor Flitwick’s Ward Construction course. Neither course should be an issue given your consistent “O”s in the topic.

“For Magical Theory itself, I recommend you self-study the subject. Professor Newman is aware of the accepted international consensus and can provide you with a reading list. While you shouldn’t bother with a NEWT in the subject, you _should_ register for the ICW Secondary Exam, which is the international equivalent to our NEWTs, for Magical Theory specifically. All of the schools in Europe, excluding Durmstrang, have adopted the ICW Secondary Examinations as the standard.”

“I see,” Aldon repeated, but this time with grim understanding. “How would I go about registering for the ICW examination?”

“We can assist you with the registration and writing process,” Professor Snape said dismissively, “and you would write it here, under my supervision. You are not the first student to be put in this position, Mr. Rosier – we have addressed this before. You are, however, taking this with an equanimity which I did not expect, so you must have had some idea that this would occur.”

There was a pause, and while it was phrased like a statement, Aldon heard the note of question in Professor Snape’s voice. He chose his next words carefully. “I did not, but I have been interested in Magical Theory for some time, and I had found it … difficult to access certain treatises, so I am not surprised. Since six NEWT-level courses are recommended for entry to advanced study, what would you suggest in the alternative since I would be self-studying Magical Theory?”

Snape gave him a curt nod, understanding, and looked back down at Aldon’s sheet. “I would recommend Ancient Runes. As a non-wand-based system of magic, it will provide you with further theory and perspective you would not see otherwise, and you should have no problem entering the NEWT-level class with an “E”. However, at NEWT-level…”

Another pause. He was really starting to hate these pauses. “Yes, sir?”

“You’ll need absolutely top grades. While there is nothing _wrong_ with our examinations and NEWTs, the mere fact that we have not adopted the ICW Secondary Examination standard is sometimes considered suspect. For entrance into a reputable program, you will need grades high enough that it would appear absurd to deny you entrance.”

Aldon nodded, grimly resigned, and left, holding the door open for Charlotte Underhill after him. He shouldn’t have had any issues with his OWLs, but he hadn’t planned on applying for the Potions NEWT and would need to catch up on his studies there. And as for the rest, well, the international schools wouldn’t have access to his NEWT grades when this considered his application and would probably look at his OWL grades instead to gauge his potential. He had work to do. 

XXX

In February, Professor Dumbledore stood up at breakfast and announced that what had been plaguing the school was “nothing more than a basilisk.” Aldon stared up at the Headmaster, unseeing, while the rest of the students burst into panicked whispers.

A basilisk. Well, it explained why _Rigel_ had been found at the last two petrifactions, if only because he was most likely to hear the giant snake and look for it. He finished his breakfast calmly, keeping an eye on Ed who looked, for a moment, as if he was warring with himself between following instructions and trying to volunteer with the teachers on the mission, but good sense seemed to win out and he joined Aldon walking back to the common room.

Aldon used the day to prepare for his OWL exams, seated with Rigel and Pansy in a crowd of second-years and fourth-years. Ed and Alice had long since disappeared to a private study room, though if they were actually studying, he would eat his wand. He finished reviewing his Potions theory by six that night, setting down his notes and his textbook in a neat bundle on the floor beside him. Pansy was sitting in self-reflection, Adrian was leaning back in a corner on his sofa reading a book of Quidditch strategies, while Draco, Bulstrode, and Nott were playing a game of cards. Rigel, sitting beside him, was reading a book on Healing. Aldon studied the book – it was one on diagnosing the environmental causes of illness.

Wasn’t that interesting, though? Rigel had said last year that he had largely taken up Healing so that he could avoid going to the Hospital Wing himself. For the most part, what Rigel _should have_ been studying was first aid measures: bruises, cuts, broken bones, and the like. However, he seemed to be reading, of all things, a textbook on diagnosing environmental causes of disease, which would be more consistent with what Marcus and his father had said, last year, about his desire to be a Healer.

Aldon studied Rigel for a time – after the first thirty minutes, he didn’t even try to hide it.

The glamour was really very good, he reflected. Most glamours broke after a time, or they flickered oddly. Hiding reality became a strain on even strong magical items, or they weren’t permanent. But Black’s was perfect, like Polyjuice, a perfect glamour that never wavered. He didn’t think it was Polyjuice, that simply wore off too fast. Rigel had barely moved from the spot all day, and he certainly had spent more than an hour sitting on the sofas with them, without food or drink. Even when he retrieved food or drink, continuing his odd vegetarian habit, Aldon hadn’t seen him slip anything into either.

The other problem with Polyjuice was that it didn’t create composites. It created impostors, and whoever Rigel Black was, he didn’t look like anyone else Aldon knew, either. It was probably a composite image. Whoever the Heir to House Black was, he needed to carry to genetic signifiers of the Black bloodline: black hair, grey eyes with a particular sheen, delicate and almost exotic facial features. He also had to look different from the other Blacks currently existing – he could not simply mimic a younger Lord Black or Master Regulus Black, as while genetic inheritance might work _differently_ in purebloods, they weren’t identical replicas of their forebears. This was particularly so for the Blacks because they were not as careful about keeping their line free of recessive traits as other families. Rigel had to look unique, and yet like a Black, and that sort of glamour was difficult to maintain.

The glamour could hide only some scarring or chronic disfigurement, he supposed, but that explanation just didn’t feel right to Aldon. He had, with not an insignificant amount of effort, traced down Society pictures from the months before Rigel’s birth, when Lady Black was heavily pregnant. Arcturus Rigel Black had been born shortly thereafter. He existed, and he was more likely than not the child of Lady Diana Black; the larger the number of people involved in a conspiracy, the harder it was to keep hidden. The more complicated his theory became, the less likely it became, simply because the chances of discovery became too high. And if it was scarring or disfigurement, it wouldn’t explain the other odd things, either.

He wondered, idly, what Rigel Black really looked like, underneath the glamour.

Rigel was shifting uncomfortably under Aldon’s gaze. If Black was controlling his glamour consciously, Aldon quite thought that he would have seen some gaps, a flicker, some other imperfection. Black was obviously stressed by the attention, and, sparked by a curious and wicked impulse, Aldon closed the small gap between him and Rigel, looking over his shoulder.

“You must be an exceptionally slow reader, not to have turned a page in twenty minutes,” he said into Rigel’s ear, voice soft. He aimed to be disconcerting, and kept both his eyes and his gift focused on finding a telltale flicker, a telltale distortion.

Rigel took a few minutes to look up, eyes unfocused. “What?” he asked vaguely. “Oh, yes, it’s quite dense, this book. I have to work through the Latin roots for a lot of the terms in my head before I understand them.”

It was an outright lie, and Aldon knew it. Still, nothing. It was almost as if his glamour _was_ Polyjuice, some perfect variant that didn’t require hourly doses. Most glamours, other than Polyjuice, didn’t hold up to physical contact, though.

“You shouldn’t work your brain so hard on a day off. It’ll make your hair fall out before you’re fifty,” he said, reaching a hand out to ruffle Rigel’s hair. Rigel’s hair was a little rougher than he had expected, but it was there. The hair was real, at least, and there was no flicker, no distortion in Black’s appearance. Nothing.

“You’re right, I should probably call it a day,” Rigel said evenly, allowing no trace of discomfort into his voice, though he stood up with an alarm that Aldon could feel. “Good evening, everyone.”

The glamour was perfect. 

XXX

After the search for the basilisk, though, security in the castle became much tighter, with all extracurricular activities cancelled. Aldon never had any extracurricular activities, so he couldn’t say he particularly cared about that part, but he didn’t appreciate the limited library time. Instead, he persuaded Selwyn to place one of the larger private study rooms on permanent reserve for the OWL and NEWT students.

“Fine,” she said, rolling her eyes, “though I don’t know why you’re so worried about OWLs. You’re smart, Aldon, you’ll do fine.”

Aldon had thanked her flatly, then moved into the study room and set up shop. Straight “O”s were not impossible, and would set a good track record for his Mastery applications. He had asked Professor Newman for a reading list for upper year, apologizing for being unable to take his NEWT-level course, and judging by the steely glint in the professor’s eye, he had understood. The list he had been provided included, to his surprise, many of the texts he had imported and read last summer, both supported by the SOW Party and international texts. Professor Newman had left small marks on the paper advising which books were difficult to find and therefore “not critical”, but based on the Professor’s careful enunciation of the warning and his gift, Aldon understood that these were the books that he truly needed to consult.

At the end of February, Professor Lockhart was petrified. Aldon could bluntly say that he didn’t care. He was already self-studying for the Defense OWL, particularly difficult with five years of more than useless professors. He used the opportunity that day to attempt to get closer to Black, but he wasn’t even sure that had worked. So he had de-braided the boy’s hair, and even if Rigel was initially reticent, he was cornered quickly enough. The motion was soothing, both for him and for Rigel, who relaxed a bit after the first few seconds.

The day wasn’t a complete loss. He learned that Rigel was uncommonly modest, even with his own gender. He slept in his clothes, and he never let down his guard. But that was fine – Aldon understood paranoia. It was a necessity when one was hiding one’s blood status. He, too, was paranoid.

A fourth-year Ravenclaw was petrified not even a month later. 

XXX

“Black! Where is your escort?!”

Alice’s shout drew attention from across the crowded common room, and Aldon winced, in no small part because she had been sitting nearby and had practically shouted it at him. He looked up from the large Rune diagram spread out on the low coffee table in front of him, seeing Rigel standing in front of the sliding door uncertainly.

Rather, his face was blank as usual, though he had tilted his head slightly in confusion. “Professor Snape let me go early, so I hadn’t arranged one until later this evening.”

“And you didn’t think to ask Professor Snape to patronus-call another prefect, or to walk you back himself?” Aldon couldn’t see Alice’s face, but he could tell from her tone that she was scowling at him. A glance around the common room revealed that most of the common room had given up their usual pursuits to watch their Head Girl dress down the second-year.

“No, I didn’t think of it. I’m sorry.” Black looked down at the floor in seeming contrition. On closer examination, Black didn’t look well. His face was still expressionless, but there was a softness, a vulnerability to it that Aldon was not used seeing.

“You always are,” Alice replied sharply. “Just don’t ask me to feign surprise when the basilisk gets you.”

Ouch. Aldon grimaced in sympathy, finding it high time to interfere. He was Rigel’s friend, or he would be. And the sort of comments that Alice was throwing around, with Rigel’s wild magic and an entire common room watching, well, that would spell a problem if his magic decided to do anything. “That’s a bit harsh, Alice. At least he had an escort to begin with.”

His plea fell on deaf ears, as Alice promptly took Rigel to task for not knowing where his wand was. It _was_ rather disconcerting to learn that Rigel didn’t always know where he kept his wand, but he obeyed, put his wand in the pocket he picked, and conceded to Alice’s authority. It should have been the end of it, but Alice kept pushing, so Aldon stood up, clapping her on the shoulder.

“Thank you, Alice. I’m sure Rigel understands your meaning perfectly. He won’t forget anymore, will you, Rigel?” He carefully angled himself between the two of them, drawing the common room’s attention on himself and off Rigel, making a discreet move behind his back to signal Rigel to leave and retreating to follow him. “See? He understands. We’ll just check to make sure he knows where his wand is a few times over the next month, and soon it’ll be habit. I’ll help Rigel practice stowing his wand now, in fact –”

Snorts of laughter over the next two tables revealed that his gambit had worked, and he sighed dramatically, looking around. “Not like that. Cesspools, the minds of today’s adolescents.”

Rigel was close behind him, close enough for Aldon to drape an arm around his very solid shoulders. Not a glamour – nothing off, even as his gift buzzed. Alice snorted in reply, turning back to her NEWT study. “Just get him out of my sight, Aldon.”

Rigel tried to make a beeline for his dorm, even as Aldon led him back to the loveseat that he had strewn his Ancient Runes books all over. He piled his reference books on top of his rune circle; it would keep, and he deserved a break, especially after that performance.

“I was going to study,” Rigel started.

“Go get your books, then.” Aldon dropped back into the seat he had occupied earlier. “I’ll wait.”

“I was going to study by myself,” he replied, grey eyes dark. He drew the words out slowly, uncertainly, or perhaps he just didn’t think Aldon understood what he meant. Aldon quirked a half-smile at the boy – of course he knew what Rigel had meant. He just wasn’t interested in acceding to the request.

“What difference does it make? I won’t bother you. I want to see what you’re studying, that’s all.” Would it be Healing? Or Potions?

“It’s not anything interesting,” Rigel tried again, fidgeting slightly.

Aldon shot him a glare. “Go get your books, Rigel, and let me decide what I think is interesting.”

He was back in a few minutes, a healing textbook in his arms, and sank down in the seat beside Aldon, pointedly ignoring him. Aldon examined the book carefully: _A Complete Guide to Immunology_. He wasn’t very familiar with Healing, but certainly seemed to be a generalist text. Rigel flipped open the book to _Chapter 8: Blood-borne Illness_ , but his grey eyes, so arresting, didn’t move over the page. Rigel just stared, unseeing, at the title, and after a few minutes, his eyes were suspiciously wet.

He set the book down beside him, between him and Aldon, and brought his knees to his chest, wrapping his arms around his knees and resting his face in his knees. His breathing was deep, even, but there was no question about his state. Aldon picked up the book and set it aside, on top of his runic dictionary, and rested a hand on Rigel’s shoulder.

“Yes, Rosier?” Black looked up. His eyes were fine, not even red-rimmed, and if Aldon wasn’t a Slytherin, he would have been convinced.

“Are you all right?” he asked delicately.

“Yes, thank you.”

It was a lie, and Aldon didn’t need his gift to know it. “You’re lying,” he said, half-smiling.

“If I’m such a liar, why bother asking me anything?!” Rigel snapped, turning away, and this time Aldon heard the crack in his voice. He leaned back, raising his hands in surrender.

“My apologies for whatever nerve I just touched, but,” he hesitated, “you should know I meant the accusation fondly. I don’t mind when you lie. It’s almost endearing.” That was even true – they both kept secrets, and Aldon thought he understood better than most the reasons why Rigel Black lied. He might want to uncover those secrets for himself, but wasn’t he a rather different case? He, too, was a halfblood. He understood why the secrets they kept needed to be so, and it helped that he knew when Rigel lied.

Rigel took a deep breath, blowing it out slowly. “Don’t apologize, Rosier,” he sighed. “ _I’m_ sorry. You were right, anyway. I’m not really fine right now.”

Aldon let the silence seep between them for a moment, watching him, but the other boy kept staring at his knees. “I know,” he said eventually. “It was obvious you weren’t. I shouldn’t have asked.”

Rigel made a face, and scrubbed at his face with his hands. They didn’t show any signs of what Aldon thought had been tears, but they would if he continued. He reached for the younger boy’s hands, keeping them in his own. “Don’t do that.”

He left his hands in Aldon’s for only a few seconds, before pulling them back awkwardly and running them through his hair. Given the texture of Rigel’s hair, Aldon rather doubted that any amount of finger-combing would fix it. Rigel reached for his textbook, flipping it back open to _Chapter 8: Blood-borne Illness_ , but after five minutes, it was obvious he wasn’t going to be reading it. Aldon sighed softly, pulling the book from Rigel’s hands and placing it back on his runic circle, just out of the boy’s reach.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

“No.” That was true.

“Fair enough,” Aldon conceded, after a pause. He wanted to push Rigel farther on it, because he was so obviously upset, but at the same time any idiot could tell it had to do with Malfoy somehow. Normally, if the second years came in without Black, they sat in the common room to wait for him before retiring, but today when they had come in, Malfoy had looked distinctly upset and stormed off to his dorm. Pansy had followed shortly thereafter, and with her, the rest of the second years. So Aldon was curious, yes, but it probably wasn’t important. At this point, it would probably be more helpful to let it go, to let Rigel trust him, rather than pushing too hard.

“Turn around,” he said.

Rigel looked at him, a suspicious look in those grey eyes. “What?”

“Turn,” Aldon repeated, gesturing with one hand for him to turn. “I’ll do your hair.”

“Again with the hair? It’s too short to do anything to.” Rigel wrinkled his nose.

“Maybe you should grow it out, then,” Aldon said, half-smiling.

“Maybe you should leave it alone.”

“It will help you relax,” Aldon added.

“It’s going to stress me out.”

“And why would it stress you out?”

Rigel frowned at him. “I don’t know, but it will. Can’t I just sit here quietly for a little while? You can go, if you’re bored.”

“You mean, can you sit here feeling miserable and alone, overthinking whatever problem is going on between you and Draco right now and desperately trying to figure out what you can do to fix it?” Aldon inquired lightly, raising an eyebrow. “Well, I suppose you _could_ , but do you really think that’s _not_ going to make you stressed?”

Rigel scowled. “Does Draco know you call him by his first name?”

Aldon didn’t normally do such a thing, even though he and Draco were second-cousins through his great-aunt Druella. He simply didn’t know the Malfoy Heir that well. It was a gambit to tease Rigel, to see his reaction, and it worked. “Rivals should be friendly with each other, shouldn’t they?” he said, instead.

“Since when are you rivals?”

“Never you mind, just turn around and let yourself relax for once.”

“I’d rather not,” Rigel replied, tone blunt.

“Think of it as a trust exercise.”

“Why should I trust you?”

Aldon quirked another half-smile. “It’s like you’re trying to insult me.”

“It’s like you’re trying to guilt me into something.”

“And you say that like it isn’t working,” Aldon smirked, and he knew he had won by the scowl on Rigel’s face – one part annoyed, two parts resignation. He could work his way up from resignation, he was sure.

“If we both know you’re trying to manipulate me into doing whatever you’re trying to get me to do, then why should I let you do it?”

Aldon tilted his head slightly to one side, considering Rigel carefully, considering what he could or should say. He wanted to be as truthful as possible: _I am the only other halfblood, like you, at school_ , but of course that was impossible, as well as unwise, in the crowded Slytherin common room. He picked his words carefully.

“Deep down, you want to be friends with me, Rigel. You want to call me by my first name, and you want to be yourself around me. I don’t say this to be egotistical, I believe you want this with most people. I think there’s a part of you, a soft, buried part, that genuinely wants to be close to other people. But there’s another part of you that’s scared – that’s the part that pulls back when people get too close, and it’s strong, but the buried part of you is strong too.” He pointedly ignored the fact that the part that was scared had, in fact, very good reasons to be scared when it came to most people, and that there were actually very good reasons for Rigel to hide parts of himself around people. His core was silent, and he supposed he had said just enough truth to avoid lying by omission. “That part is what makes you inclined to humour my manipulation as long as you see no harm in it, even though you don’t really understand its purpose.”

Rigel narrowed his eyes at him skeptically. “What _is_ your purpose?”

Aldon smiled, huffing a soft laugh. “I want to help the softer part of you win, I suppose.” _At least, with me._

“Even if what you said is true – and I don’t think it is – that weak part of me is buried for a reason,” Rigel said, his voice quiet. It was like they were both having the same conversation, with the same subtexts, but Rigel didn’t realize it, didn’t realize that he was talking to a kindred halfblood. Which, of course he didn’t – Aldon was sure of that.

“Did you ever think that it’s because _I_ don’t want it to win?” A lie.

“I’m sorry, but I don’t think I can give you whatever you’re looking for. It might be better if you let it go now.”

“It might be easier,” Aldon agreed easily, “but better? I think not.”

Rigel heaved a sigh, fully resigned to the reality that Aldon was going to do his hair. “In other words, you’re not going to stop … whatever it is that you’re doing?”

“Not until you can put it in words, at least,” Aldon smirked at the sheer ridiculousness of it. He spotted Ed looking over at him from the table where he studied with Alice, eyeing his actions. He knew what this looked like from the outside. And the fact that what Ed was thinking wasn’t anywhere near correct, well, that was quite funny, if offensive and insulting. “Don’t worry about it so much. As long as we know where we stand, neither of us can get hurt, so where’s the harm? Turn around.”

Another pause, as Rigel eyed him with no small amount of trepidation, resignation to reality notwithstanding. “You _actually_ just want to touch my hair?”

Aldon nodded, suppressing his laugh.

“And that’s all? You won’t do anything else, like steal the strands for Polyjuice, or –”

“So mistrusting,” Aldon murmured, as Rigel rolled on.

“—and you are aware that I don’t understand whatever undercurrents you’re striving for at all, and that it doesn’t mean anything, and –”

“Yes, yes,” Aldon interrupted, finding it high time to intervene before Rigel kept rambling, using Rigel’s shoulders to physically turn him and to pull him back against him. Rigel scowled up at him, his head in Aldon’s lap clearing not having been a part of how he thought this was going to go, but Aldon ignored him. “Close your eyes,” he ordered.

To his surprise, Rigel did so, a stubborn set in his mouth and chin as he did so.

Rigel’s hair was thick, slightly rough to the touch. While it was neat enough, if left to grow out, Aldon quite thought that it would turn into a wild, curly, mess. He had to be careful, sliding his fingers through Rigel’s hair, not to get it caught in any knots, though he worked out the ones he found with careful strokes. He went slowly, smoothly, keeping an eye on Rigel’s face. He was rewarded when, after a few minutes, the stubbornness in Rigel’s face wore off, and the tension in his shoulders loosened.

Fifteen minutes later, Black had fallen asleep, but Aldon kept at it.

Here they were, two banned halfbloods, in the House of Snakes, at the best school in the world. Both of them supposedly the scions of prominent noble houses, both of them making their way by pretending to be what they weren’t, by pretending to be purebloods. Aldon hadn’t had a choice in the matter – it wasn’t his fault that his parents had lied to him his whole life. Had Rigel?

Some things certainly suggested that Rigel knew, that he had had a choice. Rigel had to know about the glamour spell, at least, and there were clearly other things that Rigel hid. He had sworn them to secrecy on his Parselmouth ability for months, until it had been forced out, and he was oddly, strangely, overly repressed. He was paranoid, even by Aldon’s standards. All these spoke to much more elaborate lies than the sole one Aldon carried: his truth-gift, which led to his probable blood status. Two years on, even with his gift being every bit a part of him, it was becoming easier and easier to keep his secret, to keep on pretending, to find other excuses for how he knew things, to lie.

But as time passed, Aldon didn’t want to. Lies were heavy, even more so when one was lying to one’s closest friends. He knew that Ed suspected _something_ , that Alice suspected _something_. Lies were heavy, even more so when they would change everything, his Society position, his future, his relationships, were anyone to find anything out. Lies were heavy, and Aldon would give much to have one friend with whom he could be totally, completely honest.

“Aldon.”

“Hmm?” Aldon looked up at Ed, who was eyeing him with a raised eyebrow and a distinctly disapproving expression. Well, he knew what it looked like when he did it. Time to play the game – the tired, tiring game with his closest friend. “Yes, Edmund? Has Alice retired already?”

“It is an hour past curfew,” he said, stiffly.

Aldon nodded slowly, looking around. The common room had largely emptied. He hadn’t realized he had been ruminating for so long. “I see. Thank you for letting me know, old chap. I’ll be along shortly, but don’t bother leaving the light on.”

There was a cool silence, and Ed looked pointedly towards Rigel, whose head was still in Aldon’s lap. “Rigel should retire as well.”

“As you can see he already has,” Aldon replied with a quick half-smile. “But I acknowledge your point. Would you like to carry him?”

“Neither of us can enter the second-year dorms, and Rigel would be highly offended if he were to discover that someone had moved him without his knowledge.”

Aldon laughed softly. “Offended? Unlikely. But he would certainly be distressed.”

“I was not under the impression that you were averse to causing Rigel distress of late, Aldon.” As expressionless as Ed’s face was, as neutral as it was, Aldon could hear the notes of strong disapproval in his low voice, and he stiffened.

Ed didn’t know what it was between them, and he could never know – or maybe he would, one day, but not today, not in this Society, not now. Neither did he like the implication, but at the same time, what could he say?

“I’m trying to _help_ him, Edmund.”

“By consistently ignoring his boundaries?”

“By attempting to show him that his current boundaries are unhealthy and unnecessary,” Aldon replied, mentally adding comments. _At least with me._ “I’m not scaring him, Edmund. I know that’s what Draco thinks, but Rigel isn’t _afraid_ of other people. He’s alienated from them. He sees no reason to be close to other people, and doesn’t understand why anyone would want to be close to him. It is confusion he feels, and impatience.” _As I would, had I known I was a halfblood earlier, no doubt._

“He doesn’t like it, Aldon.” Ed’s voice was a soft warning. Internally, Aldon flinched, even as he stayed the course.

“Because he doesn’t know what it means,” he replied instead. “He’s worried I want something from him, something he won’t want to give me, and that makes him uneasy – as any Slytherin would be when he senses unspoken terms on the table.” What those unspoken terms were, he would let Ed assume, but he only wanted friendship. Honesty. A knowing person who _understood_ what it was like to hide your blood status to all and sundry.

“What _do_ you want from him, Aldon? Can you pretend you do this,” he waved his large hand to where Rigel’s head laid in Aldon’s lap, “for his own good, when he surely cannot benefit from it while asleep? He’s young, yet.”

Aldon _knew_ that was where Ed would go, and he didn’t like it. Still, what else could he say? He pulled his fingers from Rigel’s rough, soft hair. “ _I_ am young yet, Edmund. You think I would touch a boy the same age as our Pansy? Like that? I was teasing him at the Gala, Edmund, and you know that. This is, I was thinking, and I forgot I was doing it. I want nothing from him.”

That was a lie, and he told his gift to shut up. He knew what he damn well wanted, and it wasn’t what Ed thought he wanted, not by a long shot.

“Nothing from him now, or nothing until he is older?”

Aldon suppressed a laugh, even as he took the opportunity. “Nothing at all now, and nothing he does not agree to when he is older.”

Ed’s lips quirked up, slightly, and Aldon smiled more fully, knowing he had successfully misdirected his old friend without him thinking the absolute worst. And just like that, Aldon knew that Ed had let it go. “Perhaps you should explain that to young Draco, then. And Rigel too, for that matter.”

Aldon shook his head, smirking. “Draco is more amusing when he is riled. As for Rigel, I don’t think he would believe me if I told him I didn’t want anything from him. He would suspect I was covering up for an expectation I didn’t dare utter. It is better for him to think that I’m merely teasing him, taking out my boredom on him. As long as he can ascribe a harmless motive to my attentions, he won’t worry so much, and Merlin knows the boy worries enough for ten Ministers of Magic.”

“Wake him up, Aldon,” Ed replied, shaking his head and turning towards the fifth-year dorms. “And get to bed before you start waxing poetic worse than Lady Parkinson.” 

XXX

Rigel killed the basilisk. Then he dismembered it for parts.

Aldon was there, when Snape dropped him off in the common room, announcing that the basilisk was dead. Rigel was filthy and disheveled, with a dark and empty look in his steely grey eyes. He slid along the wall in the silent common room, towards the hallway to the second-year dorms, until he was intercepted by Theodore Nott. Nott, a fellow second-year, guided him the rest of the way while shooting promising looks at the Slytherins who dared to stare at him. He promised himself, that night, that he would check in on his young friend the next day, after Rigel had gotten some hard-earned sleep, only for Rigel to disappear the next day. Then Pansy returned that very day, and Aldon watched Black through dinner that night, and he seemed to be coping fine, though he didn’t want to talk about it. The dismembering for parts, apparently, had been Rigel’s form of finding closure.

It wouldn’t be Aldon’s way of finding closure, but then again, he supposed he should be surprised that an aspiring, promising Potioneer would choose this method of processing trauma.

So, he kept an eye on Rigel, the rest of the year, and there was nothing to suggest that he _wasn’t_ coping fine, so Aldon didn’t ask. And, with OWLs upon him, soon he didn’t have time to think about it much anyway.

His first exam was Charms: theory in the morning and practical in the afternoon. He forgot the incantation for the Hiccoughing Charm for the morning theory, simply because it hadn’t been something he had studied in any detail (who really needed a charm to make someone hiccough anyway?), but he thought he managed to make it up with his thorough response on the differences between different types of levitation charms. Fortunately, hiccoughing charms didn’t come up in the afternoon practical, so he had confidence that he had performed well there. Once it was over, there was no break – it was straight to the library for last minute revisions for Transfiguration, the next day.

Transfiguration went much the same, though there he was confident he had done well. The theory posed no problems, this time, and the only issue was that he had _intended_ for his snuffbox to be green, rather than grey, because a colour change made it more difficult, but at least it didn’t have fur or whiskers, as Marjorie Southwell’s did. In Ancient Runes, he mistakenly translated _ehwaz_ as _eihwaz_ , protection instead of defense, but at least his rune circle in the afternoon worked, creating the basic ward as requested. Magical Theory, of course, he knew he had aced, but there were two questions where he debated whether he ought to give the politically acceptable answer, or the international consensus. In the end, he blandly wrote down both, stating that British scholars adopted one view and international schools the other, and didn’t opine of which was correct.

He then had a break, while Ed went to do his Care of Magical Creatures and Duelling exams, and he used it to brush up on his Potions. Of the remaining exams, Potions was the most important, and the exam he dreaded the most – not the theory exam, but the practical. The theory was, it turned out, extremely straightforward, especially compared to Professor Snape’s usual exams, but he nearly ran out of the time on the practical. The resulting Invigoration Draught looked, he thought, about right, but it had taken him more time than expected to cut up his fire slugs and he was a _little_ delayed putting them in his cauldron, but it had stabilized with a little extra magic and he thought he had pulled it off.

After his Potions exam, though, he had to admit that he relaxed somewhat. The rest of his exams didn’t matter – he had studied, certainly, but he hadn’t focused on them as he had for the subjects that he needed for the future. His answers in Herbology were straightforward, simple, lacking the intellectual rigour of his Magical Theory answers, and while he might have over-pruned his Shrivelfig somewhat, it would survive. Defense Theory was the most difficult of his Theory exams, which Aldon attributed to having the most useless teachers for the past five years, but the practical went well and he wasn’t concerned. Arithmancy went surprisingly well, even if he hadn’t focused on the subject, and he was only lost for the last page of questions, which he thought were the most difficult anyway. He was confident on the star chart that he had labelled for Astronomy, although he missed at least two of the moons of Jupiter, and the History of Magic exam was, as usual, close to a nightmare. He managed to answer about half of the questions in the subject, but didn’t worry much about it; if any subject was corrupted as much as Magical Theory, it would be History of Magic, and he didn’t think the international community would be very fussed if he only got an “A” in the subject instead of an “E” or an “O”.

And then it was summer and, goodbyes aside, he was home. 

XXX

What was home?

Once, Aldon would have said that home was he was surrounded by his family, by his friends, by the people who loved him. If that was the case, then Rosier Place was no longer his home. His mother had greeted him with a warm hug, certainly, asking about his school year and his exams, and he had answered as best as he could. His father had asked about his plans for NEWTs, and he had left Magical Theory out of it entirely. His father nodded in approval of his choices, and when pressed about his plans after Hogwarts, Aldon had suggested a Mastery in Ward Construction. Ward Construction was safe, plausible – it was closely related to Magical Theory, but was a pragmatic, practical application. The best Ward Masters trained outside of Britain, in the same elite institutions and in the same departments as pure magical theorists, and it was a lie that he could carry. Once he applied to the schools, they didn’t need to know the details.

He was, again, shadowing at the Rosier Investment Trust, and the Trust wasn’t home anymore than Rosier Place. He got on well with the other clerks, the analysts, a few of whom he knew for a fact to be Muggleborns or halfbloods, educated abroad. The Rosier Investment Trust, as a private company, wasn’t tied to the same hiring laws as public companies, and while the Rosiers might be prominent members of the SOW Party, their business philosophy was entirely merit-based.

He was assigned, this year, with the New Developments division, the group responsible for evaluating new ideas, new inventions, and funding new inventions and developments. Inventions took work, took time, developments cost money. Researchers and developers needed an income while they brought their ideas to fruition, and it was the development division of the Rosier Investment Trust that considered these ideas, considered proof of concepts, and decided whether to fund it. If the venture didn’t work out, then it was a loss, but if they succeeded, the Trust received a portion of that success. It was the New Developments division that had funded the Firebolt project, five years ago, which was now _stunningly_ successful.

The New Developments division was, from a Magical Theory standpoint, utterly fascinating. The witches and wizards of that division worked with Magical Theory concepts every day, though they were usually more specific than the larger theory on the nature of magic that he preferred to think about. Most of the staff in New Developments were Muggleborns and halfbloods, educated abroad at schools like the American Institute of Magic, Ilvermorny, Cascadia, Oceania, Mahoutokoro and the National Magic School of China; most had received a basic grounding in Theory allowing for thorough and fast assessment of ideas. Rather than negotiating any loans or performing any of his own assessments of new ideas, he watched and shadowed his colleagues as they worked.

He watched as Ryu Takahashi, the Trust’s broom design specialist and the genius who decided to fund the Firebolt project, reject an idea for a broom that could reach outer space.

“What about _atmosphere?_ ” he had snarled, as he scrawled the document with a single word, _Rejected_.

He watched as Albert McEvoy, a specialist in experimental charms, consider and recommend accepting a design for new Omnioculars, which would theoretically be able to record up an hour of a match, rather than the ten-minute replays that the current model provided.

“The designs look structurally sound,” he had murmured, as he stared at the sketched models. “See, Rosier, he’s increased the efficiency of the record spell by using a material with a lower Alchemical co-efficient, as well as amplified the effect by embedding an Amplification spell into the record spell, so it’s really two spells working in one. Even if it doesn’t do _exactly_ what he’s promising, I think it’s worth the investment because there will be _some_ sort of improvement.”

He watched as Aman Kaur, the Trust’s defensive items specialist, consider and reject a lie detecting orb. In principle, the orb would light up as red or green, depending on whether someone lied while in front of it. He had been interested in the idea, but she squashed it quickly.

“Why do you think it would work, Rosier?” she had asked, not unkindly. “How would it _know_ whether what you said was a lie or not? To know whether or not someone is lying, it needs to perform some form of Legilimency – that’s how Veritaserum works, it seals a person’s mental magic, suspending all Occlumency and then compels truth. I have no idea how this orb is supposed to access my mind to tell me when I’m lying. If I had to _touch_ it first, maybe, but I’m not even sure that that would work, given how intrusive the Legilimency attack would need to be.”

Aldon had thought for a few minutes. “How do Remembralls work?” he asked.

Aman snorted. “They don’t. They just always light up, no matter what, because people are forgetful by nature. No matter who you are, you are forgetting _something_. The toy is a waste of galleons.”

But as much as Aldon liked the New Developments division, as much as he was, for the first time, surrounded by other halfbloods and Muggleborns, he lied. He was the son of Lord Rosier, prominent SOW Party member, the Head of the Rosier Investment Trust. He could hardly trust his colleagues, much as he might like them, with his secret. And he was an outsider. Sometimes, they fell silent when he entered the room, and he knew that they had been discussing politics. Other times, they would keep talking, but Aldon would be lost. What was Quodpot? Why were the American-educated Muggleborns and halfbloods obsessed with it? What were the four houses of Ilvermorny, and what were their characteristics? Why was it funny that Aman had been in Pukwudgie? Sometimes, one of them would notice him there, and they would change to talking about Quidditch, but it was rarely with the same fervour (unless Ryu was talking, in which case, everyone else would be quickly overwhelmed). It wasn’t that they were unkind, or even that they were treating him with kid gloves because he was the son of the Head. It was just that, while blood was defining in pureblood society, it was shared experiences that connected Muggleborns and halfbloods. And Aldon, regardless of his blood, didn’t share the same experiences.

Perhaps home was his parlour, where, inspired by the work his colleagues did, inspired by the new research journals he had received from America which he now had time to read, he threw himself into his Magical Theory reading list. He bought every book on the list, but only skimmed the ones that he knew would be useless, carefully marking them and dog-earing them as if he was taking notes along the way. He did no such thing, of course, but he never knew whether someone would come and search his rooms. However, he had been pleasantly surprised to find that, of the actual books that he needed to study for the ICW Secondary Examination, he had read about a third of them already. If he studied, he thought he would be able to write the exam at the end of his sixth year, rather than his seventh, and he immediately sent an owl to Professor Snape to request that he register for it. It would be to his advantage to have the exam out of the way before seventh-year NEWT preparation, and having his marks back from that exam before the beginning of seventh-year would boost his applications for Mastery programs. But even when he studied, he locked the doors, he took notes on parchment and transfigured them into pieces of his chess set, Vanishing the actual pieces. His parlour could not be home, because the precautions he took to hide his increasingly controversial reading were overwhelming, because his parlour itself was a carefully painted lie.

He wondered, for a few moments, if Hogwarts was more of his home now. But Hogwarts could not be his home. He enjoyed his time there, but he walked a tightrope. He was always aware of the fact that he was a halfblood, always aware of his position, always aware of the dangers of being discovered. As much as he loved Hogwarts, he could never relax there, and therefore it could not be home.

At the end of summer, on his way back to Hogwarts, he realized: Home was a place he didn’t need to lie. 

XXX

“I barely heard from you this summer, Aldon,” Ed said, worry in his dark eyes as he joined Aldon in their usual compartment on the Hogwarts Express. “How are you?”

Aldon tilted his head to one side, slightly surprised, though he supposed that was true. “My apologies, Edmund. I was busy shadowing at the Trust and studying, and I must have forgotten. How was your internship? The dragon reserve in the Hebrides this year, right?”

His friend shrugged. “It was fine. What do you mean, studying? We have finished our OWLs, and it was the summer.”

Too late, Aldon realized his error. “I meant reading,” he corrected. “Just usual reading, you know I read a lot in the summer.”

“Yes, but you specifically said “studying”. You are too precise in your use of English to use these words interchangeably, Aldon. What do you mean, studying? You know I don’t like being lied to, Aldon, and as clever as you think you are, I know you’ve been hiding something from me for the last three years.” Ed was frowning, his voice cool, frustrated. “We are friends, Aldon, or had you forgotten?”

Aldon winced. “We _are_ friends,” he affirmed, even as his mind scrambled for an explanation. “You know me too well.”

He tried to leave it at that, but Ed simply raised an eyebrow and waited. If it was a waiting game, Aldon knew that Ed would always win – Aldon was simply too impatient to wait him out long. It was ten minutes, fifteen, twenty, and the train started moving and Aldon looked out the window and Ed stared at him with the same waiting expression. The minutes ticked by, in time to the rattle of the Hogwarts Express. There was nothing preventing him from talking about magical theory, he supposed reluctantly, Ed knew that he was interested in it. There was nothing about magical theory that would reveal his gift, would reveal blood-status, the idiotic stereotype that only Squibs took the subject notwithstanding. The politics of it were more complicated, but were at least understandable. Yes, he could do this.

“I was studying Magical Theory,” he said finally, meeting Ed’s dark eyes. Ed leaned back, his expression clearly stating that Aldon always read magical theory anyway, so that didn’t explain anything. “Well, you remember our career counselling sessions last year?”

Ed nodded.

“Well, it turns out that the Magical Theory program at Hogwarts is not very well recognized, so Professor Snape recommended I self-study and do the continental examination in that subject instead,” he explained delicately, picking his words carefully. “And since most of the programs are abroad, they will want the exam results earlier, so I am writing it this year rather than seventh year.”

“I see,” Ed drew the words out, chewing them over. “That explains your _summer_ , but not the _past few years_.”

Aldon stared back at his friend, honey-coloured eyes meeting dark brown ones, and he knew from the stern expression on Ed’s face that there was no point ducking the question, this time. It _had_ been three years – far longer than he, quite frankly, expected Ed to wait. Ed was a well of patience, but even he had his limits, and one knew the second one crossed those limits. Based on the expression on his face, Ed wanted answers, and he would not leave without them.

Aldon could lie. But the problem with Ed was that he knew Aldon, just as Aldon knew him. Aldon knew that Ed had suspected things, that he had always suspected things, and that Ed suspected more than he said, because he never gave things up unless he had proof. Ed would know, if Aldon lied by saying something unrelated, because Ed knew him too well.

He took his time, waiting under Ed’s withering stare, and weighed his options. He could tell Ed everything. He could talk about that summer, just before third-year, when his world turned upside-down. He could talk about finding and figuring out his truth-gift, about his logical conclusions that led to his questionable blood-status. They had been friends since he was five. Ed was his closest friend in the world, and he liked to believe that, at least once, he had been Ed’s closest friend in the world. It was _possible_ that Ed would accept it, would accept him, uncertain blood-status and all.

But could he be sure that Ed wouldn’t use it against him? And if he refused to tell him, what then? Would Ed stop befriending him?

The very thought made his chest hurt, a sharp stab that had nothing to do with his gift. A world in which Ed was not his friend was not a pleasant one, and Aldon knew that instantly that, whatever the risks were, his friendship with Ed was worth more. Ed was there – Ed was always there, Ed first and Alice second, and if Ed decided to turn him in, he would work it out. He would figure it out, because he had his OWLs now, because even if he was expelled from Hogwarts, the pain of leaving Hogwarts would be nothing compared to the pain of losing Ed. And he would have no pleasure staying at Hogwarts without Ed by his side, anyway. 

“At the end of our second year,” Aldon started slowly, reluctantly, the words pulled out of him by Ed’s disapproving stare. “I discovered I had a gift. Not one that most people have heard of, at all – it’s rare, and it’s … a traditionally _halfblood_ gift.”

He let the whole tale of that summer spill out, in fits and starts, about his truth-gift, his preliminary research into the nature of magic, his realizations about his family, his own probable origin. He talked about Archibald’s Theory of Increasing Organization, about the nature of magic, the spectrum between wild and organized. The words came out, tumbling in a disorganized stream, and he barely noticed that Ed had cast a muffling charm around their compartment, because he was looking down at his dark, finely polished, shoes as he spoke. He didn’t need to keep talking, but he did, and he told Ed about special ordering unsanctioned books from abroad, about the American Journal of Magical Theory that he obtained through illegal channels, about the quiet censoring of certain classes at Hogwarts. He left Rigel Black out of it, because Rigel’s secrets were his own, but he told Ed about his plans to study Magical Theory, about how he had to go abroad because the entire Magical Theory department at the Merlin Institute of Advanced Study had been dismissed, about the international suspicion towards the British Wizarding Examination Authority, and the ICW Secondary Examinations. He spoke and spoke and spoke, until the great weight that had sat on him disappeared, until he had nothing left to say.

This was Ed. This was his best friend, his brother, since he was five years old. If Ed couldn’t accept it, no one could – Ed was perhaps the only person he cared about more than himself. It was gutting, giving Ed the power to utterly destroy him, but if he didn’t have Ed, he wouldn’t have anything, so it didn’t matter.

There was a long silence, as Aldon looked anywhere except Ed.

“Well,” Ed said, his voice bemused but holding a suppressed laugh. “That explains much.”

Aldon shot him a glare, but Ed smiled, a beautifully slight quirk of his lips, and reached forward to clasp Aldon on the shoulder. “I think you’ve made much of what could be nothing, though it _was_ wise to hide the truth-gift.” 

Aldon scowled. “What do you mean, much out of nothing?”

“You said Archibald’s Theory of Increasing Organization found that the magic lost its wildness after four generations, right?” Ed shrugged, nonchalant. “You could be pureblood-by-definition. Most of Hogwarts is pureblood-by-definition, and you cannot be the only one with a questionable history, even if yours is more obvious than most. If we didn’t marry in Muggleborns and halfbloods, Aldon, we would be extinct.  Why do you think the Fade occurs? It’s simple in-breeding. You can always tell which families are the most in-bred by how few children they have. As a population, we’ve never been able to maintain our numbers without marrying halfbloods and Muggleborns.”

“But, the politics…”

“ _Damn_ the politics, Aldon,” Ed snapped derisively. “The politics don’t stop reality. I wouldn’t be shocked if a quarter of the school were secretly halfbloods with faked family trees. It’s harder for you because your gift and your political standing make it difficult to maintain the fiction, but take a family like the Jones, in Hufflepuff, or the Southwells, or the Fawcetts, or even the little twins in second-year. They’re not important enough for anyone to check their histories, so it would be easy to invent a family tree with four magic-using grandparents to establish pureblood status. You wouldn’t be the only halfblood at Hogwarts, even if yours would be the most scandalous if it came out.”

Aldon had never thought of it that way, but Ed made quite a bit of sense. He smiled, and, moved by an impulse he simply didn’t want to ignore, he leaned over and wrapped his friend in a hug. “Thank you,” he said softly, trying to squeeze a little extra appreciation into his hug.

Even more surprising, he felt Ed soften and pat him a few times on the back. “Thank you, Aldon, for trusting me. Even if it is three years too late,” he replied. “Now, please get off of me. How did you do on your OWLs?”

Aldon pulled back, sitting much more comfortably on his own bench seat, and grinned at his best friend. His brother. “Outstanding in Charms, Transfiguration, Potions, Magical Theory, and Ancient Runes. Exceeds Expectations in both Defense and Arithmancy, and Acceptable in the rest. I’ll be taking Charms, Transfiguration, Potions, Ward Construction, Curse-breaking, and Ancient Runes at NEWT-level. How about you?”

“Outstanding in Care for Magical Creatures, Defense, and Duelling, with Exceeds Expectations in Charms, Transfiguration, Herbology, and Potions. Acceptable in the rest – Magical Languages was a mistake, I should never have taken it in the first place. I’ll be continuing with Care for Magical Creature, Defense, Duelling, Charms, Transfiguration and Herbology at NEWT-level.”

Aldon sighed wistfully. “We’ll only have Charms and Transfiguration together, then,” he said, though he hadn’t really expected them to share many classes at NEWT-level. Ed had always been the more hands-on of the two of them, unafraid of getting his hands or his clothes dirty, and he always hated the theoretical work that drove Aldon. At least they would have Charms and Transfiguration together.

Ed snorted. “We share a dorm, in case you had forgotten. I’m positive I will see you daily.” 

XXX

Having Ed back, having Ed _on his side_ , made a difference. Even if he didn’t have many classes with him this term, even if they were no longer attached at the hip, it was _nice_ not to be alone. They studied Charms and Transfiguration together, which was more useful than he would have expected; Aldon was good on the theory, but the practical casting was difficult for him, whereas Ed had the opposite problem. He didn’t enjoy NEWT-level Potions, which he had expected – it had taken all of three days for Professor Snape to snap at him for his squeamishness, but how could Aldon help it? Salamander skin was _disgusting,_ and he gagged over his cauldron. Ancient Runes introduced several new Rune dictionaries, for international systems, which he found interesting but trying in terms of memorization.

He was pleasantly surprised by Curse-breaking. Of his new electives, he had expected to enjoy Ward Construction, because it was the type of slow, methodical problem-solving he liked, and Professor Flitwick was a knowledgeable and talented professor. He hadn’t expected to like Curse-breaking, expecting it to be filled with risk-taking, reckless adventurers dreaming of glory. There were adventurers, certainly; two Gryffindors had made it through Magical Theory into the elective, Natalie Fairburne and Andrew Kirke, but they were outnumbered by members of the other houses. Aldon was the only Slytherin, but there were Cedric Diggory, Tamsin Applebee, and Geoffrey Summerby from Hufflepuff, as well as Alexander Willoughby from Ravenclaw. And the class itself turned out to be _extremely_ methodical, _extremely_ slow and considered. One did not attempt to break a curse by throwing spells at it – one first figured out what the spells were, figured out where the retaliatory spells were embedded, and figured out how to _safely_ disable _all_ the spells in a precise order to avoid being killed. Rather than simple essays, Professor Newman layered curses and retaliatory charms onto wooden boxes, which they were expected to open _safely_. Once opened, they wrote short papers listing what curses were on the boxes and their methodology for solving the puzzle box. The curses were never the same across different boxes, and Aldon smirked when Andrew Kirke showed up in class with an opened box and no eyebrows.

“I missed the embedded Incendio,” he had said sheepishly.

They were permitted to ask each other for help with their boxes, and Aldon found himself pairing up, more often than not, with Willoughby to work on their boxes. Sometimes Willoughby would come down to the Slytherin Common Room, box in arm to work, but more often Aldon went up to Ravenclaw Tower, which was easier because Aldon didn’t need a password, and because there were more study and lab rooms available in the Tower to steal. Ravenclaw Tower had three levels dedicated only to study rooms, labs, and something they called “experimentation rooms”, which Willoughby explained had more inbuilt safety precautions. They normally took over one of the experimentation rooms and blasted revealing spells at the box until they figured out what was on it, then they planned the appropriate order to disable them and open the boxes. It was surprisingly entertaining, and Aldon was very good at it. His extensive Magical Theory readings helped; he was faster at picking up the difference between the different types of charms, faster at realizing the processes at work and sometimes he found he didn’t need to identify the curse to remove it.

None of this distracted him from the continuing mystery that was Rigel Black. Far from it; with the relief of having even one person share the weight of his secret, he often wondered how it was that he could convince Rigel to open with his secrets, if only to one or two people. It wasn’t healthy, living with secrets.

Thus, when Pansy came to his and Ed’s corner in the Slytherin Common Room and asked for help with Care of Magical Creatures, it was only logical for Aldon to wind his way back to the second-year study tables with them. Rigel was, perhaps unsurprisingly, reading a Healing textbook on late-stage cardio-pulmonary conditions.

Unusually, it was Rigel who broke the silence. “Evening, Rosier,” he said, setting his book down open on the table in front of him.

“And what are you reading tonight, Rigel?” Aldon asked, examining him through half-lidded eyes. He still buzzed through Aldon’s core; if anything, the vibration almost felt like it was stronger, this year. But he never felt it throughout the summer, so he could never be sure if it was stronger or if he had just forgotten. “Another anatomy textbook?”

Rigel shook his head, smiling slightly. “A treatise on airborne pathogens, actually,” he said, lifting his book to show Aldon the cover. _The Effects of Environment on the Cardio-Pulmonary System_. Interesting – it was not a generalist textbook, this time, and it was knowing the answer that he asked his next question.

“You got into the Healing class this year, then?”

“Not really,” Rigel lied. “I still have the occasional lesson in my free time, but I didn’t have room in my schedule to be in the regular class.”

The latter statement was true, so Aldon assumed that Rigel must have gotten into the class, but was unable to take it due to his time constraints. In any case, this treatise was far more advanced than what the third-years in the Healing class would be studying, so he feigned surprise as he continued to pry. “What did you take in its place? Besides Potions, Healing is all you seem to study in your free time.”

“I opted to take Arithmancy and Ancient Runes,” Rigel replied, leaning back in his chair. “Since my cousin Harry takes Healing classes in America, I can learn enough though correspondence with her that making room for a whole class here seemed unnecessary. Arithmancy and Runes would be much harder for me to self-study.”

“Interesting criteria,” Aldon commented, listening with both his gift and his ears. He had not forgotten the Healing and Potions distinction he had identified in Rigel’s first year, nor Flint’s comments that year. “Most people take the classes they’re good at or interested in pursuing a career in, if only so they might take the OWLs and NEWTs that would qualify them for future employment in the field. Why study Healing if you’ll have no credentials to apply for an internship when you finish at Hogwarts?”

Rigel shrugged easily, unconcerned. “I haven’t decided what I want to do for sure yet, and I’d prefer to maximize my learning now and worry about the future later. I can always take the Healing NEWT if I want to, even without taking more lessons from Madam Pomfrey. It’s so rare for students from Hogwarts to have a Healing NEWT in any case, because the program here is so small, so even major hospitals like St. Mungo’s will interview candidates without credentials if they show an aptitude.”

That was a straight up lie, and Aldon knew it. The first lie was easy: Rigel knew perfectly well what he wanted to do. The interesting part was the rest, which all rang as a lie, even if it was all _technically_ true. It meant Rigel didn’t believe it, even as he said it, which was interesting, and altogether, Aldon guessed that Rigel had no intention of pursuing further studies in Healing. But why? Rigel was supremely gifted at Potions, and even if Rigel was putting on a good front of being interested in Healing, it was a front. His interest in Healing was like his interest in Transfiguration, or Charms – it was something he needed to do, something he didn’t necessarily dislike, but it wasn’t a _passion_.

“For entry-level positions,” Aldon pushed. “Do you plan on cleaning bed-pans for six months when you turn seventeen?”

“If they need cleaning,” Rigel replied, nonchalant, and Aldon didn’t need his gift to know what Rigel didn’t believe it to be a likely eventuality. He laughed softly.

“Big words. Are you really so unconcerned about your future?”

Rigel tilted his head to one side, allowing the lights in the common room to reflect off his grey eyes, considering. It was an eminently pureblood look, even if Rigel tended to dress in brewing robes all the time. “I find that making too many plans for the future can undermine one’s ability to appreciate the present.”

“Or, maybe you’re just confident in your ability to secure a worthy position regardless of academic credentials,” Aldon said, letting his voice relax into a cool musing. He was pushing buttons, and he knew it – any idiot could tell that Rigel wouldn’t take kindly to his next insinuations, and it was that reaction to which he was interested. “I wonder, is it faith in your own abilities, or the ability to trade on your family connections?”

Rigel stilled, his blank face taking on a slightly insulted cast, as Aldon knew it would. He shut the book on airborne pathogens and set it aside. “I don’t understand.”

“Your father is very well-liked at St. Mungo’s. Aside from volunteering, he heads a committee for organizing fundraising events and personally donates an embarrassing number of galleons every Yule. That kind of clout is very useful for someone seeking employment in a competitive field.”

Rigel stared at him for a few seconds, then took in a deep breath, breathing it out slowly, visibly thinking about what he was going to say. “My father invests so much time and money into St. Mungo’s for the same reason that I want to learn about Healing for its own sake, not for a mark or prospects.”

It was a lie, and Aldon kept pushing. “And what reason is–”

Oh, fucking _hell_. Aldon stopped before he could finish his sentence, mentally slapping himself. _Lady Black,_ of course. It didn’t make any sense, not in the grand picture of things, of course. Rigel hadn’t been interested in Healing until the second term of his first year, which didn’t fit with the story. Rigel himself, that year, had said that he hated Healing, and Mediwizards, and that he had only started learning to Heal because he didn’t want to have to go to them. Certainly, that was one explanation that worked in and of itself, but it _didn’t_ work with wanting to learn about Healing for its own sake because of his mother’s death. And both were lies, anyway, and Rigel _knew_ it, but Aldon couldn’t continue questioning without looking like a complete ass.

“She passed in the winter, close to Yule,” Rigel added, artfully lowering his voice, quiet enough to be chiding.

“Rigel, I didn’t mean—”

“Yes, he did,” Draco interrupted, glaring at him angrily. Aldon mentally slapped himself again – of course Draco would be there. He was Rigel’s best friend, though Aldon had seen less of him this year than previous. Judging by the Malfoy scion’s behaviour and the timing, his guess was that Draco had come into some sort of gift or inheritance which he was having trouble controlling. He couldn’t say he cared overly much, but it was evident from the looks that the two underclassmen were exchanging that Draco was getting more from this conversation than Rigel was – or that he thought he did.

“I’m certain Rosier spoke in ignorance, not malice,” Rigel said graciously, a moment later. “My mother passed a long time ago, and there’s no reason he would remember the details of her illness when he was so young at the time.”

“And _I’m_ certain he did that on purpose,” Draco argued. “He was positively _pleased_ as he said it.”

Aldon frowned, looking over the pureblood scion. Aldon knew that he had been no such thing, at least not outwardly. He was _good_ at hiding and feigning emotions, as any proper pureblood Heir was, and any pleasure he felt at their exchange was purely at the information he was pulling from Rigel. He had been on the trail of _something_ , he was sure; if only he could have pressed Rigel harder on his supposed interest in Healing. Was Malfoy an _Empath?_

Empathy was more common than truth-gifts and, in terms of wildness, were most similar to Natural Legilimency. They both fell on the unorganized and wild end of magical inheritances, being more common among those of Muggleborn blood, but he recalled that there were a couple instances where a pureblood had been found to have it. Aldon’s completely unprofessional reasoning was that Empaths and Natural Legilimens broke _some_ of the rules of magic, they didn’t break as many as his did; both Empathy and Natural Legilimency could be reproduced by those without the gift using other spells, and both could be defended against by Occlumency. Aldon’s gift, if his reasoning was correct about it, bypassed Occlumency entirely. Still, that a prominent, predominantly halfblood gift had cropped up in the _Malfoys_ , of all people, that was interesting.

“He didn’t realize his mistake until the words were out,” Rigel said, sighing, still defending Aldon and trying to de-escalate the situation. “He’s perfectly sorry now.”

“Now that you called him on it,” Draco snarled at his friend. “Rigel, when are you going to see that he _enjoys_ tormenting people?”

“I _don’t_ ,” Aldon snapped, standing up to defend himself. If anything, he was trying to _help_ Rigel, which was more than Draco, with all his pureblood supremacist thinking, had ever done or would ever do. “I don’t torment people.”

“You _do_ ,” Draco said, turning to him, his silver eyes spitting in anger. “What else do you call purposely making people uncomfortable and asking inappropriate questions just to see them squirm? It’s impermissible, and yet no one says anything because your father has bought up half the businesses in Diagon Alley. You’re just like him, bullying people into doing what you want for a bit of amusement—”

“Do _not_ compare me to that man,” Aldon spat, taking a couple steps forward to the underclassman. He was the Rosier Heir, and he had summered twice at the Rosier Investment Trust. He had no illusions about his father, but he was _not_ the same. All the distance, the mild resentment, the uncertain background feelings he had ignored for years erupted into bitter words, even as they went unsaid.

Lord Evan Rosier was a pureblood – Aldon was a halfblood. Lord Evan Rosier rarely stepped foot into New Developments or gave them any recognition, for all that the New Developments division had produced nearly sixty-five percent of the Trust’s profits in the last five years. Lord Evan Rosier was a _fucking hypocrite_ who sided with SOW Party politics, even has he had, at least once, kept a Muggleborn or halfblood mistress and even as he currently profited off Muggleborn and halfblood knowledge.

Aldon was _not_ the same. He _couldn’t_ be the same.

He was darkly pleased to see Draco stagger with the weight of his anger, a look of gasping shock crossing his face. Served him right.

Rigel looked around, from one to the other. “Maybe we should talk about something else,” he offered weakly.

“No, I think Draco and I need to settle whatever this is now, before it festers any longer,” Aldon said, his voice icy.

“Agreed,” Draco sniffed ridiculously. “After you, Rosier.”

They retreated to one of the study rooms, thankfully empty since exam period hadn’t started. He shut the door with little ceremony, taking a seat on one side of the small, wooden table. He lounged in his seat, purposely nonchalant, though he continued to glare at Draco. Inwardly, he was slightly uneasy – Empaths could be misled with strong Occlumency shields, but his Occlumency was not very strong. Any lying he would need to do could be belied by his emotions, and he forced himself to feel as little as possible. Let the dance begin, he supposed, even if he was somewhat unprepared.

“What is it that you thought you were doing just now?” Draco demanded coolly.

“I was holding a conversation,” Aldon replied simply, tapping a finger indolently on the table.

“Usually you’re much better at not swallowing your foot while you talk,” Draco pointed out, and despite himself, Aldon grimaced. As much as he thought Rigel had only brought up his mother’s death to avoid further questions on the Healing topic, as much as he _knew_ Rigel had been lying, it was a neat trap he had been caught in. He’d need to pursue other directions in the future.

“I misspoke, yes, and I’ll apologize to Rigel for my lapse in memory,” Aldon conceded, then went on the offensive, tuning mentally to _listen_ , both with his ears and with his magic. “I fail to see why you need to take me to task for a question I already regret asking. Rather, I’d like top know why it is that every time I have a conversation with Rigel, you become personally offended, Draco.”

Draco scowled at Aldon’s use of his given name, but then, even as his great-aunt Druella Rosier was Draco’s maternal grandmother, their families weren’t close. There had been a falling out between the Rosiers and the Blacks in the previous generation, and while they were second-cousins and paid lip service to that publicly, Aldon had rarely met Draco privately. “Perhaps it is because every time you have a conversation with Rigel, you upset him, and he’s too polite to be offended on his own behalf.”

Aldon pressed his lips together, fighting the urge to scowl back. There was so much that Draco didn’t know – it was frankly astonishing that Draco hadn’t picked up on some of Rigel’s secrets himself. Then again, he supposed the Malfoys were higher up in the SOW Party hierarchy, meaning that Draco had likely been exposed to far more pureblood supremacist thought, and without his family’s evident hypocrisy. Maybe that was enough to have him ignore all of Rigel’s inconsistencies.

“As difficult as I know it is for you to believe, you are not the only one with Rigel’s best interests at heart,” Aldon said, with an effort draining his voice of any judgement or derision. If Rigel hadn’t seen fit to tell his closest friends any of his secrets, there was probably a reason for it. He chose his words carefully. “Yes, I provoke the boy sometimes, but Rigel is exactly the type of person who needs to be provoked. You have known him as long as I have; don’t pretend you don’t know his character. He avoids everything that makes him uncomfortable, including other people more often than not. Do you think that is a habit his friends should encourage?”

“Rigel doesn’t avoid us,” Draco argued. “He’s been around all the time, lately.”

“Around, yes, but engaged?” Aldon snorted. “He sits among you all and reads, but how often does he volunteer information about how his life is going? Or initiate casual contact?”

“That’s none of your business,” Draco snapped, and Aldon was pleased to see he had managed to put the other boy on his back foot. Then, he frowned – Draco’s reaction shouldn’t have been so vehement, unless…

“You know something.”

“Just leave Rigel alone,” Draco scowled.

Aldon snorted again, leaning back in his chair. “You really want Rigel to end up alone? Because that’s where he’s headed. He’ll never seek out friendship or companionship on his own.”

“He’s not required to.”

“But he _wants_ to, can’t you see that?” Aldon said, raising an eyebrow in surprise. Hell, Draco must not be very observant, if he had missed that. “Rigel soaks up friendship and affection like a sponge when he lets his guard down, but left to his own devices, he pulls away. He needs people to pull him back again.”

Aldon purposely left out the fact that, as a halfblood, Rigel probably had very good reason for pulling away from his friends when he had the opportunity. Still, all he said was true, and of his friends, surely Rigel could trust at least some of them. Like him, or Ed. Maybe even Pansy – he had never pushed his younger friend on her personal political views, but neither had she said any of the openly pureblood supremacist things he had overheard Draco saying before.

Draco shook his head, clearly thinking he knew something Aldon didn’t, though Aldon was of the view that whatever Rigel had told him, he had been successfully misdirected. “Rigel has secrets. There are things you don’t understand – things I don’t understand, too – and making him too uncomfortable is only going to push him away.”

Aldon raised an eyebrow. “Is it? It hasn’t, yet.”

Draco opened his mouth to respond, then frowned, clearly realizing that Aldon had been right. Aldon followed it up since he had the chance.

“Rigel _says_ he has strict boundaries, and maybe he even believes it. But every time someone crosses one, he forgives them. Rigel _wants_ to be close to people; deep down, he wants to drop his mask, which is all I want him to do. I want him to relax around his friends, to tell us the uncomfortable truths he keeps hidden, to realize that no matter what he says or does, we’ve already got his back, and to understand that getting close to someone doesn’t have to be scary or confusing. Right now, he pretends to trust us, to believe that we care, but in reality he shoulders everything himself and doesn’t trust us to want to help him, or to forgive him any imperfections. That’s unhealthy, and it isn’t fair to us, either.”

It was more complicated than that, to be sure. Certainly, he wanted Rigel to relax around _him_ , around a few safe people that Aldon knew or suspected would be open to having a less-than-pureblood friend. Still, neither could he deny that of that list of people, Draco was not on it. There were very few people that it would, in truth, be safe for Rigel to tell his secrets to, but there _were_ people, and from experience, Aldon knew that having even one person share the load was important.

“It’s not our place to confront Rigel about his issues,” Draco said finally. “We’re his peers, not his parents.”

“If not his friends, than who?” Aldon asked patiently. “His father, who doesn’t seem to see Rigel even when he’s looking right at him? Professor Snape, who couldn’t nourish emotional bonds in a child if it was his own, much less the son of his hated rival? Perhaps we should leave it to his cousin, living in America most of the year and by all accounts more antisocial than Rigel himself?”

Draco opened his mouth, then closed it again, pursing his lips in unhappy agreement. His point was made, but Aldon couldn’t resist continuing. Maybe it was the high of having outwitted someone with a gift. “Or maybe you think Rigel will work it out for himself, given time? Do you really think Rigel will ever leave his self-imposed comfort zone on his own? No, he’ll nurture what he sees as one-sided friendships, always willing to help others but never accepting any help in return, smiling and making small talk while whatever secrets he’s keeping slowly eat away at him from inside out. You’ve seen the contradictions embedded in the life he leads, Draco. You know it can’t last. Isn’t it better to show him now that getting closer to people doesn’t mean facing rejection when something less than perfect shows through that veneer of his?”

Draco held his hand up, an imperious movement that Aldon suppressed a smirk at. He was winning, slowing reasoning Draco to his side, though Aldon was skeptical that Rigel, as close as he was to Draco, would ever reveal his blood status to him. Aldon hadn’t wanted to tell Ed, even with all the cues he had that Ed had broken away from the SOW Party ideology. Draco was an entirely different case.

“I understand where you’re coming from,” Draco conceded, more gracious than Aldon would have expected. “But I have to strongly advise you that even though things like sitting closer to Rigel or touching his hair seem casual to you, they aren’t to Rigel. He takes physical contact extremely seriously, and that part really does make him uncomfortable and confused, and I don’t think you can acclimate him to it, no matter how often you try.

Draco certainly believed that to be true. He wasn’t saying it just to push Aldon away – he genuinely believed it to be true that Rigel took physical contact seriously. “He hasn’t had a strong adverse reaction yet,” Aldon pointed out. “It can’t be that strong of a psychological barrier. It seems to be that he keeps a distance on purposes, but not out of fear or extreme paranoia. It’s more like he thinks he ought to.”

“Just trust me on this one,” Draco said, shaking his head. “Don’t try to use physical contact to break through Rigel’s social barriers. He’ll be too police to tell you so, but there are reasons you don’t understand for why it upsets him.”

It was true, and Aldon surmised that Draco believed he knew what those reasons were. Aldon tended to be of the view that whatever Rigel had told Draco about his physical boundaries, it wasn’t the truth. But at the same time, it was good to know that Rigel was avoiding physical contact for a reason. Did it have to do with the glamour, perhaps? Rigel was also uncommonly modest, so perhaps it tied into that? Aldon didn’t have enough information on this point, so he tucked it away mentally for another time. He shrugged. “All right, I’ll try a different approach. Although, I was trying that tonight and rather botched it, I fear. I thought if I caught him off-guard with a pointed question, he might reveal something more than his usual vague answers to queries about his goals and ambitions.”

Draco leaned back, obviously satisfied with that concession. Aldon didn’t mind; as far as he was concerned, he had come out the better in their exchange, without revealing any of what he knew or suspected about Rigel. “How do you really feel about Rigel, Rosier?”

Aldon blinked, surprised at the direct question. Well, if he wasn’t convinced that Draco was an Empath before, he certainly was now. “I like him, Draco. Is that so hard to believe? He’s an interesting person.”

There was no response from Draco, and Aldon realized that it was because Draco hadn’t been listening to what he said at all, only to his empathic sense. He wasn’t in total control of the gift yet, then. Well, Aldon had nothing to be ashamed of in terms of how he felt, so he wasn’t worried.

When they returned to the common room, Aldon made a show of apologizing profusely to Rigel, even as he suspected Rigel had only brought up Lady Black’s death to prevent Aldon from pushing him farther on the Healing question. That told him that there was something important, something key, underlying the reasons for those studies, and he resolved to find out what it was.

He was disturbed that, if anything, this added more evidence to the imposter theory. 

XXX

On Halloween, Rigel left the safety of the Great Hall to find his werewolf uncle, and Aldon was surprised at how strongly he felt about that.

He wasn’t supposed to be that afraid for Rigel’s safety. He cared about Rigel, to be sure, but he thought it was because of their shared secret, because Aldon didn’t want Rigel live for as many years with that secret looming over him as he did, because he wanted Rigel to realize that at least some of his friends would be fine with him being a halfblood. But he wasn’t supposed to feel the bottom of his stomach lurch when Rigel dashed headlong into danger, his wasn’t supposed to tremble with fear and anxiety on his friend’s behalf, he wasn’t supposed to feel sick with worry over his young friend. He never had before; he had worried over the basilisk, yes, but it wasn’t this intense, this overwhelming, this numbing.

It wasn’t supposed to be, but it was.

It was only his gift that let Rigel reassure him as quickly as he had. For once, Rigel fought back as hard as he gave, insistent that he had done the right thing in the circumstances. He had had a plan, and that was true, and he didn’t go tearing off in a panic without any way to help, and that was true. It was true that, of everyone at Hogwarts, Rigel was probably the only one properly able to assess the risk that Professor Lupin had posed and to neutralize it without anyone being hurt. And this time, he did tell them about the plan he had developed before running and acting on it, and it was _true_ that when Rigel found him, he was hurt and confused and injured, though his gift had vibrated in amusement at the “not dangerous to anyone” part.

He had had a plan, and he had come back in one piece, and while Aldon would have liked to rush after him and help, Aldon was not so foolish as to think he could have been of any use. Aldon knew what he was good at – it was standing in the background, it was analyzing things, it was strategy. He was not so good on the _action_ part of it. Even if he didn’t like it, he could understand that caring for his uncle was important to Rigel, and he could accept it. In the end, he simply shook his head and wrapped Rigel in a hug which, to his surprise, was returned with a couple of hesitant pats.

“Thanks, Aldon,” Rigel had muttered into his shoulder, all the while smelling like a candy cane. “I’m sorry I worried you.”

It was a lie, but only a half-lie, which Aldon interpreted as saying that while he _was_ sorry for worrying him, he would do the same in a heartbeat. But then again, Aldon hadn’t really expected anything different. “You aren’t, either.” 

XXX

By the winter holiday, Aldon had learned two more things about Rigel Black.

First, Rigel was a fitness enthusiast. This Aldon learned when he stopped Pansy, wearing truly _horrific_ clothing, on her way out to exercise with Rigel and Draco. _Somehow_ , and Ed was a large part of this, he subsequently found himself volunteered for a Dueling club, and all of its associated physical exercise. He couldn’t say he was looking forward to it, and in fact all the experience he had with exercising had not turned out well. He did not like running, or weights, or sweating, though he supposed that the stretching was fine. But Ed liked it, and because Ed liked it and Ed thought Aldon needed the exercise, he was convinced to follow along. He supposed that Duelling was a skill that would be useful to have, anyway, and it turned out that he did like the other club members, so overall, he didn’t mind.

Second, Rigel was carrying a magical item of some power. Three weeks after Halloween, a group of ward experts and goblins searched the castle for an answer to the Halloween chaos, and one of the goblins identified, quite publicly, that Rigel was carrying an “artifact of power”. Rigel obviously had no intention of revealing his item, and the matter was concluded when Professor Snape intervened. Even as most of Rigel’s fellow third-years were panicking at the thought that Rigel was potentially on some sort of magical life support, Aldon wasn’t worried – his gift had alerted him to the fact that Professor Snape’s statement was an outright lie, and because he wasn’t worried, Ed wasn’t worried. Instead, he just pocketed the fact that Rigel had a magical item of some power into his mental box, though he wasn’t sure it was of any import.

He spent most of his holiday in his parlour, studying. He had intimated to his mother that NEWT courses were more difficult than he had expected, which was actually true; he had had so much work that he hadn’t made a lot of progress in his Magical Theory studies and was behind on his plan to write the ICW Secondary Examination in June. Still, he didn’t lie to himself; he was using his studies as an excuse for avoiding his parents as much as possible. Somehow, finding words for why he hated them as much as he did only exacerbated, if possible, his distaste for spending any time with them.

He used the time productively, though, and by the time the Gala rolled around, he was actually somewhat ahead on his study plans to write the exam in June.

The Gala was at the Parkinson estate this year, and as many times as Aldon had been there, he was always impressed by its majesty. Unlike the Rosiers who, as new money and new nobility, kept a certain level of restraint in their furnishings, the Parkinsons were in the Book of Gold and it showed. The hallways nearly dripped with gold gilt, beautifully etched in detail and polished to a shine, and the floors were laid with a plush, lavish Oriental rug that ran the entire length of a corridor. It was custom-made, Aldon would guess.

The ballroom, too, was massive. The Rosier ballroom was two storeys tall, with a balcony lining the room on the second level, overlooking the dance floor, and multiple balconies on the outside wall overlooking the gardens. The Parkinsons did not have balconies looking outdoors, but they made up for it with the multiple, smaller balconies lining the inside of their sumptuous ballroom. The whole affair was crowned with a shining, crystalline chandelier that was charmed to play the music – that was new, but Aldon had to credit Lady Parkinson with the ingenuity. It was gloriously lavish, dripping with diamonds and pearls, setting the standard, but it also meant that they avoided needing to pay for musicians for the night.

He had made his usual polite rounds, once, already, sharply bored. His elders still had no interest in making conversation with a sixteen-year-old, any more than they had had in conversing with him as a fourteen-year-old, or a fifteen-year-old last year. He wondered idly at what point his elders would consider him worthy of actual conversation, instead of boring pleasantries. When he had his Mastery, perhaps? Or maybe later, when he inevitably took over the Rosier Investment Trust and reorganized it to expand the New Developments division? Or maybe they never would; maybe he would forever be a child in their eyes, and he would simply _become_ them later in life?

He wrinkled his nose at the prospect, swirling and finishing what was left of his first glass of wine. The wine wasn’t bad, he reflected. It was plain wine, of a good vintage, but not fairy wine. He supposed that was a statement in and of itself. The Parkinsons did not need to compete with wine, it said; the Parkinsons were wealthy, elite, and notable, and didn’t need to prove it. Even as the furnishings screamed it.

It was nearly the time for the first dance, and Aldon glanced regretfully at the crush of people near the refreshments table. There was no time for him to get another glass _and_ make himself scarce. Unfortunately, with his age, he was becoming something of a prospect, and he was not so blind not to notice the looks of several tittering Society ninnies eyeing him. Ed and Alice were already on the dance floor, this year, not that Ed would have dared to be elsewhere this year. Ed had written him shortly after his seventeenth birthday, earlier that month, saying that his formal offer for Alice’s hand had been accepted. Aldon had congratulated him already, both by letter and in person, and he was, almost surprisingly, heartfelt about it. He _was_ happy for his friends.

He chose the least occupied balcony, with only one person on it. She was slight, with medium length dark curls and dress robes in light lavender. She was leaning casually against the railing, looking over the opulent ballroom.

“Rather graceful, aren’t they?” he said casually, settling beside her on the balcony. “Almost beautiful, when you can’t see their faces. That’s my friend down there, with his future wife – Looks happy, doesn’t he?”

He wasn’t looking for a response from her, but he received it anyway. “Which one?” she said, her voice light, almost musical. He turned to her, staring into sea-green eyes in a _very_ familiar face, and felt a sharp, recognizable buzz in his core. _What?_

“Ri – no, you’re…” He looked the girl over. The face was all Rigel’s, the same pert, delicate nose, the same pointed chin. It looked slightly different, framed by shoulder-length curls rather than Rigel’s curly shorn locks, the longer hair hiding some of the delicacy of her (his?) pureblood face. She wore glasses, though, and he could see the touches of classic makeup spells lengthening her eyelashes, thinning her eyebrows, colouring her lips pink. And his core buzzed, telling him she wore a glamour, too.

“I’m Harry,” she offered, tilting her head up to look him in the eyes. “Rigel’s cousin.”

He pulled his gift into the forefront, instantly regretting his decision to drink that first glass of wine, cursing the fact that he got drunk so easily. It was true – so _this_ was Harriett Potter, Heiress Potter?

“Aldon,” he replied, smiling faintly to cover his confusion. “Nice to meet you.”

She looked _far_ too much like Rigel for it to be a coincidence, and mentally, he traced the bloodlines. The Potter line and the Black line were not _so_ interbred that this should have been possible. Aldon, in fact, was closer a relation to Rigel Black than Harriett Potter should have been. And both were wearing glamours, looking like twins instead of the third or fourth cousins he thought they were. And how she had greeted him didn’t make sense, either, because they hadn’t been formally introduced. She looked up at him, smiled at him, spoke to him, like she _knew_ him.

“You say that like you mean it,” she said, the slightest hint of bitterness in her voice.

“I do,” Aldon blinked, not letting any of his rushed realizations come to his face. “Are people being unfriendly?”

Harriett Potter was a halfblood. She was, in fact, a halfblood of the notoriously, wildly powerful Muggleborn Lily Evans and Lord James Potter, Head Auror and powerful Light wizard. Rigel Black was a halfblood, so much was obvious from the nature of his magic. Rigel Black was also powerful – as powerful as he would have expected the heir to Lily Evans and Lord Potter to be.

“No,” she lied, shaking her head quickly. “No, of course not. You just –ah, seem especially sincere.”

She was a halfblood, and Rosier let himself smile in amusement, taking that to mean that people had smiled at her politely and dismissed her uncomfortably. “Well, that’s one I haven’t heard before.”

Rigel Black was a Parselmouth. There were only two families who were known to still carry the genes for the Parselmouth gift: the Potters, and the Blacks. The Potters had reliably produced at least one Parselmouth each century, with the last documented Parselmouth in the family recorded in Sir Charlus Potter in 1876. He had even thought it when he did the research: _if Black were Harriett Potter, known halfblood and Heiress to the House of Potter, it would make that much more sense._

Harriett blinked at him in surprise. “Why’s that? Do you lie a lot?” she asked innocently.

“No more than most,” Aldon replied, shrugging. He would know.

 Arcturus Rigel Black’s mother had died of an incurable illness when he was a child. Lord Sirius Black had suggested, during the Sleeping Sickness, that Arcturus Black had always had an interest in Healing. Even Marcus Flint, the only person at Hogwarts known to have met Arcturus Black before the start of school, had commented on it, lying when he called Rigel, “Black”. He had said that Arcturus Black’s dream was to be a Healer.

The American Institute of Magic was known for two things: experimental charms, and Healing. Albert McEvoy, the experimental charms researcher at the Trust had told him so that summer. He hadn’t thought much about it then, since they were looking at the design for the improvements to Omnioculars, but that would fit, wouldn’t it? Harriett Potter went to the American Institute of Magic – where Arcturus Black, if he dreamed of being a Healer, would have wanted to go.

And what did he know about Harriett Potter, before today? Harriett Potter was, if anything, _more_ interested, more obsessed with Potions than Rigel Black. And Arcturus Rigel Black went to Hogwarts, where he had access to one of the world’s best researchers in Potions.

“Most people you know? Or no more than most people in general do?” Her sea-green eyes were amused, curious.

“I suppose,” Aldon started slowly, studying her, “I suppose I can only speak for those I’ve met.”

She smiled, a small, slight smile that looked _so familiar_ to him, and for good reason, because that was _Rigel Black’s smile_. “Maybe you should keep better company.”

They had _switched_. Harriett Potter, halfblood, wildly powerful, Parselmouth, would-be Potions Master, had taken the spot of Arcturus Rigel Black at Hogwarts, where she could study under one of the best Potions Masters in the world.

And Arcturus Rigel Black, would-be Healer, took Harriett Potter’s place at the American Institute of Magic, where he fulfilled his dream of being a Healer.

It was nothing short of _blood identity theft_ – one of the most serious wizarding crimes in Society, guaranteed to lead to a lengthy prison sentence at best, the Dementor’s Kiss at worst, at least for the lesser-blooded. For purebloods, it was simply _aiding and abetting_ , and the consequences for that were nowhere near as severe.

“Are you volunteering?” he asked lightly, matching her voice for music.

She turned her entrancing green eyes back to the ballroom, a laugh in her voice. “I was here first, but I guess I can’t _make_ you leave.”

And Harriett and Arcturus wore glamours to look like each other, which ended up looking the _same_ , because they needed to be able to change places at a whim, in case someone who knew one met the other. And they both needed to learn all the other knew, to carry off the ruse long term. And if Harriett Potter took Arcturus Rigel Black’s place at Hogwarts, then she pretended to be a boy. And at Hogwarts, she slept in the boys’ dormitories, where her roommates had noted that she never changed in front of them, that she slept in her clothes on the bedspread, that she was uncommonly modest and shied from physical touch.

Aldon breathed deeply, thankful for the darkness that hid his light blush. Oh, the utter embarrassment Draco, Nott and Zabini would feel if they found out. No wonder Rigel was so careful about his – her – secrets. It was _explosive_.

But it fit. Everything fit. It was neat, it was elegant, it was perfect.

“You wound me, fair lady,” Aldon replied, sighing dramatically, even as he slid a little closer to her.

“Don’t bother,” Harriett huffed, even as that small smile stayed on her face, so Aldon knew she didn’t really mean it. “Rigel’s told me all about you.”

“And what does _Rigel_ say about me?” Aldon asked, leaned towards her, not bothering to disguise his interest.  

“He says you like to confuse people.”

Aldon leaned back on the balcony railing, thinking about how he would respond. Clearly he couldn’t reveal her ruse here, at the most popular social event of the season. He didn’t even _want_ to. He _liked_ Rigel – Harriett. And if this was her secret, and he was quite convinced that it was, then it should not be public knowledge. “Rigel is intimidated by those who might see him too clearly,” he said finally. “He confuses himself.”

She looked away, back down to the ballroom floor, where Aldon could see that people were swirling on their second (third?) dance. Only the first dance and the last dance had any real societal importance, so watching the matches here wouldn’t matter. Harriett’s face had fallen into blankness – a blankness that Aldon well recognized, even on a face with glasses, with green eyes instead of grey.

“So what are you doing here, cousin of Rigel’s?” he asked, changing the topic.

“I don’t really fit in down there,” she admitted, and her sea-green eyes betrayed her surprise even as she said it. Aldon tilted his head down towards her, pressing his lips together in sympathy. He knew that feeling well. He always had it, since that fateful summer before his third year. He still had it, Ed notwithstanding.  That feeling of not belonging, of being an outsider – for something he couldn’t control.

“It’s all right,” she said, catching the expression on his face and smiling a brief, slight smile of reassurance. “I didn’t really expect to. It just sort of hit me for a moment. It’s quieter up here.”

The grumble through his core told him it was a lie – she had expected to fit in, because she was Rigel Black. She had been attending these functions for at least two years in that guise, and she _did_ fit in. She didn’t, now, and the only difference was blood-status. It would have hurt, to see Rigel’s friends act coldly, impassively, to her when she was herself, as opposed to pretending. It would hurt to see the smiling people that were so kind to her turn their backs because she was no longer wearing the protection of her cousin’s blood-status.

Everything in pureblood society came back to blood.

“Quieter in your head, you mean,” he said. “I understand.”

They stood in silence for a few minutes, both of them studying the dance floor. Aldon kept an eye on the halfblood Heiress, noting the slightly wistful expression she had whenever she glanced towards the circle of her friends, her fellow third-years. Aldon spotted a similar-looking youth with them – the real Arcturus Rigel Black, he assumed. Her friends had welcomed him into their group, a stand-in for the real Rigel Black, and Aldon could hardly help but feel slightly derisive about the fact that they didn’t seem to have noticed that their friend had been replaced with an impostor. Even if the impostor was the real Arcturus Rigel Black. He wondered vaguely if the real Arcturus Black had to pretend to be a girl at the American Institute of Magic. Probably not – no one in America would know the English nobility that well.

The fourth time Harriett’s eyes ran over to the corner where her friends stood, that understanding and yet slightly bitter look echoing through her eyes, Aldon thought it was high time to distract her.  “Do you want to count how many people we can see pretending not to be drunk?”

He was rewarded with a quick, shining, smile. “You’re on,” she said, immediately scanning the crowd. “There – that woman in the blue fur shawl just spilled her drink down her front, and now she’s trying to wipe it up without looking like she’s adjusting herself.”

“The one giggling?” Aldon laughed, spotting her staggering slightly in the crowd. “She’s definitely tipsy. How about that man, in the brown top hat? He keeps tottering.”

Harriett shook her head sharply, her curls bouncing, dismissing it. “No, he’s wearing risers in his shoes to make himself seem taller. See how his tailored pants don’t quite reach down to where they should? He’s tried to disguise it by wearing boots, but you can tell because those are the boots he wears outside, and the pant leg is showing part of the boot that usually stays covered – see? The material is lighter where it doesn’t normally get exposed to the elements.”

Aldon stared and shook his head at her. He could see no such thing, but what she said was true, meaning she did see it. “How could you possibly see that? Do those glasses magnify things?”

Harriett smiled as she fought a laugh. “It would be pretty inefficient to wear glasses that only corrected my sight.”

“You cheat!” he grinned. It was good to see her smile, a genuine smile. This was the Rigel Black he always wanted to see – or, perhaps, the Harriett Potter. The light, the easy smiles, the laugh.

“It’s only cheating if I use this pair for Quidditch,” she said impishly, leaning back and looking up into Aldon’s face. So familiar, and not, at the same time.

“Well, I feel cheated,” he protested affably, without meaning it, not really.

“I’ll let you have the next one,” she said, falsely generous, even as the smile stayed on her face.

“I only met you ten minutes ago, and you’re already patronizing me,” he sighed.

“I was patronizing you the whole time,” she informed him, injecting her musical voice with sadness, even as her eyes laughed.

“All right, so that’s how it is,” he grumbled, playing along and turning back to the dance floor. “There. Lady in the orange shoes. Just started doing the steps to the Italian version of this dance when they’re clearly playing French music.”

Harriett blinked. “I thought this song was Austrian?”

Aldon laughed. That, now _that_ , sounded like Rigel. “Way off, Miss Potter.”

“Just Harry,” Harriett said, and Aldon had a sneaking suspicion that this was how Arcturus Rigel Black got away with his gender at school. Mentally, he fixed the characters in his head: there was Arcturus Rigel Black, who went to school as _Harry_ , and there was Harriett Potter, who went to school as _Rigel_. Harriett would be Harriett, in his head, at least. “Oh, there’s one. The man in those weirdly cut satin robes, over by the far staircase.”

He looked over. “In the shadows, there? He doesn’t seem drunk.”

“That’s because he just took a sobering potion,” she laughed, eyes sparking in enjoyment.

“You saw him?”

She shook her head. “See how he winces every time the lady next to him raises her voice to talk to that old man on her other side? And how he averts his eyes from the lights? That man has a serious hangover, and unless he got drunk at eight o’clock this morning, it’s because he just took a sobriety potion and is waiting for it to fully kick in. The cheaper ones take the buzz away first, then cure the headache once the willow bark fully breaks down in the system.”

Offhand potions knowledge, too, Aldon noted, just like Rigel. Of course, because she was Rigel. “You are uncommonly observant,” he sighed. “I am never going to win this.”

“Is there anything you’re good at?” she asked, laughing, but the smile fell off when he fell silent in reflection. Was there anything he was good at? Magical Theory, he supposed. Curse-breaking. All the useless things that wouldn’t really help when he took his place in society, at the helm of the Trust, a halfblood permanently masquerading as a pureblood Lord. The light enjoyment they had had with their game drained away, and Aldon tried valiantly to bring it back. It wasn’t anything that Harriett Potter could help with – it wasn’t even that important. It was just Aldon trying to find a place for his interests that fit in the pureblood mold, a pureblood mold he didn’t fit and that he wasn’t sure he wanted to fit anymore.

“Probably,” he laughed lightly, but he could tell Harriett didn’t buy it. She was Rigel, after all – she was a Slytherin.

They lapsed again into silence, but this one was awkward, nothing like the easy silence they had earlier. She broke it, sighing. “I should go back. Check on my family.”

“I’ll walk you down,” Aldon said, offering her his arm. She reached out to him, gingerly, and rested her hand on his elbow as he was sure she had seen Pansy do so many times but that he suspected she had never done before. Their steps down the stairs were slow, measured, and with every step, every slow breath, he could feel her gearing herself up for an evening of unspoken thoughts, assessing stares, unwise and unkind comments on her and her blood-status.

At the bottom, he turned to her, taking one of her hands in his, on a sudden whim. He might be a halfblood, but he was still the Rosier Heir, and he could surely extend some small political protection to her before they parted ways. It wasn’t the first dance, and it wasn’t the last dance, but it would still be a dance with the scion to a popular and favoured House. And if he refused dances with everyone else that night, well, that would only help. “Would you care to dance?”

“Not on your life,” she said, smiling at him kindly, bravely.

He let her go, returning her smile and taking no offense. “You and Rigel are quite a pair,” he commented.

“If you say so, Rosier.”

If he hadn’t been convinced before that she was Rigel Black, he was now. “It’s Aldon,” he reminded her gently, frowning.

He could see her scrambling for an explanation, her sea-green eyes briefly panicked, then smoothing out into sheepish calm as she bluffed. “Of course. Rigel calls you that – sorry.”

“It’s all right,” he replied, a second later, smothering his disappointment that mentally, Rigel – Harriett – didn’t call him by his given name.

She looked around, then evidently spotted someone. “I have to go do something,” she grimaced, excusing herself. “It was nice to meet you. Thanks for… you know, distracting me.”

Aldon bowed – thirty degrees, one of equals, one of a pureblood scion to another, when they were neither. He smirked at the irony. “Anytime at all, Miss Potter.”

“Harry,” she corrected him sharply, and plunged into the crowd.

Nothing that happened that night did anything to convince him that his theory was anything except correct.

Ed told him that she was engaged to Arcturus Rigel Black, but it was obviously a ploy by her family, by their families, to protect her in light of the pending Marriage Law – even if she didn’t need protection, even if she so clearly faced her problems on her own, choosing her own solutions. He meant it when he said that they were too similar: _It would be like marrying oneself, so alike are they_. Of course, he meant something quite different than they thought he meant, but that was fine. It was _all_ fine.

She Healed Elder Ogden, that night, when he was attacked by an instrument he had brought in. She and her cousin, Arcturus Rigel Black. Aldon, ignoring the proprieties, had slunk closer to the crowd surrounding Elder Ogden’s fallen body, close enough to hear their words.

She called for her cousin to help her, calling him “Archie”. Arcturus immediately joined her, kneeling on the floor, taking out his wand and, without being asked, without any instructions, began spelling the Blood Replenisher Potion directly into the elder’s stomach. Aldon couldn’t hear their close, whispered conversations from his position, but he did hear Arcturus giving detailed instructions about long-term recovery to Madam Marchbanks, with a cool confidence, expertise, and bedside manner that could only have come from practice. He sounded nothing like Rigel – like Harriett.

And yet, when the cousins were identifying the contraption that had nearly murdered the venerable elder, he heard Harriett’s pointed use of the name “Rigel”. He heard Arcturus’ scramble to remember Lee Jordan’s attack on him – on Harriett – in first year, he felt the light buzz through his core that told him that Arcturus was lying. Of course, he was lying, because Lee Jordan had never attacked him, and he was only guessing based on Harriett’s clues, based on what she must have told him before.

He heard Arcturus’ excited description of the AIM Healing program, heard Draco’s comment that he wasn’t used to Arcturus being so _excited_ about Healing. And that, too, fell perfectly in line with Aldon’s conclusions, because while Arcturus Rigel Black was excited about Healing, Harriett Potter was _not_.  Rigel Black learned Healing the way Harriett Potter would learn Healing: like Transfigurations, like Charms. She learned it because she needed to, not because she loved it.

And he heard, too, the cousins’ brief argument about their wands. Because Harriett had used _Rigel’s_ wand to Heal, and Arcturus had used _Harry’s_ wand. They bluffed it well, but Aldon’s gift told him bluntly that they never switched wands, that they hadn’t mistaken their wands after flying. They used their own wands, because _Harriett_ was Rigel, and _Arcturus_ was Harry.

And when Harriett, or Rigel, joined him and Ed and Alice later that night on their balcony, her younger sister in her arms, Aldon looked at her, at her suddenly nervous sea-green eyes, and he _lied_ for her.


	3. Chapter 3

 

Back at Hogwarts, Aldon watched her. 

She was … different at Hogwarts. Or, more accurately, she was the same. She was the same Rigel that her classmates had come to know; she was mild-mannered, studious, polite to a fault. But he saw flashes of Harriett there, too – he saw it every time she made a dryly acerbic comment, every time she teased her friends. He saw it every time she didn’t know something, some aspect of pureblood culture or custom, that she ought to have known but didn’t. He saw it every time her façade slipped, even a little, and her passions slipped out – even if they were almost entirely about potions, and he was quick to realize that the potions were _Harriett’s_ as much as they were _Rigel’s_. In some ways, at Hogwarts, Harriett Potter relaxed far more than she had at the Gala. She was comfortable here.

But as Rigel, she was so … contained. She was secretive, as she had to be. She was comfortable, she was relaxed, but there was a level of paranoia that he had both come to expect and that he, now, _understood_. Her eyes, now that he knew their true colour, were ugly. They stabbed at his core, an obvious lie made worse by the fact that he knew they should be a glittering sea-green – sea-green with a glint of humour, a glint of laughter. The eyes she wore at school were a dull, blank, grey, and he hated them. She never laughed at school, not the same light, genuine laughs, eyes sparkling, that he found so easy to provoke from her at the Gala. She smiled, but those smiles so rarely reached her eyes. He missed the willingness to poke fun at her friends’ expense, a sense of fun that had been replaced entirely by a dour studiousness. He missed her blunt honesty, the fearlessness that let her insult the heir to the House of Rosier to his face, which had been replaced entirely by mild-mannered politeness. He watched when her friends, Nott, in particular, teasing her, and he watched her let it roll off, let it go in a way that she never did when she was herself.

As much as Aldon hated the facade, though, he was drawn to it. He _admired_ it. Harriett Potter was fearless. She was fearless, driven, cunning, resourceful, ambitious. Finding out her secret only revealed fully how well she belonged in the House of Snakes – imagine wanting something, anything, so badly that she were willing to break the laws, to risk the judgement that would inevitably come, to lie systematically to everyone she knew for _years_ to achieve her dreams. 

Aldon barely had to think to know Harriett’s dream. It was in her eyes every time she looked at Professor Snape. It was hunger – a hunger for recognition, for esteem. It was in her voice every time she talked about potions. It was in the intensity with which she approached Potions – her talent for which had gotten her excused from the main class and into private lessons with Professor Snape. From the rare instance that he caught her studying Potions openly in the common room, copies of books titled _Ingredient Substitutions: A Master Guide_ and _Mastering Multi-Layered Potions_ and, most alarmingly, _Free-brewing for the Free Potioneer_ , it was obvious that she was well past the NEWT-level. Every time she looked up, looking his way, he would blink his gaze away, to his textbook, to his homework, to Ed. It was just enough to give him some plausible deniability.

Aldon had never wanted anything that much. He wanted to be liked, appreciated, respected for himself as much as anyone did, he thought. Once he had discovered his gift, he had wanted to understand it, to disprove the inevitable hypothesis, which had deepened his interest in Magical Theory into something like a direction. But even that interest, enough to have him import journals directly from America so they wouldn’t be censored, that was nowhere near the distance that Harriett had gone to achieve hers. He supposed importing journals illegally was breaking the law, but it was something that, if caught, he would pay a fine and walk away. It was not _blood identity theft_. What Harriett had done was _insane_ in its courage.

He ignored the moral implications, because it was obvious to him, if to very few others, that the prohibition against Muggleborns and halfbloods at Hogwarts was poorly founded and ineffective anyway. Hogwarts had been an excellent school with Muggleborns and halfbloods in attendance, half a century ago. It hadn’t become a better school by the absence of Muggleborns and halfbloods. If anything, the education provided had weakened in some areas because of the effect of blood purity propaganda. Based on his readings for the ICW exams, it was obvious that other schools internationally had no obligation to “teach all sides” in Magical Theory. Other schools didn’t need to play semantic games with the word “theory”. Other schools didn’t need to gloss over certain principles because they would be “too controversial”. And, anyway, Ed was right; statistically, while the attendance at Hogwarts had dropped somewhat after Muggleborns were barred from entry, it had not when halfbloods were similarly barred. He found it unlikely that thirty percent of the population had suddenly become pureblood overnight. It was far more likely that a substantial number of halfbloods, particularly from less prominent families, had simply falsified their bloodlines.

Sometimes, Aldon wanted to approach her. He wanted to ask her about it, to let her know that _he_ knew. But he didn’t dare – her secrets were too explosive, too volatile, and one never knew when someone was listening. In her position, he had no doubt that he would simply Obliviate anyone who found out. And he had no idea how to approach her about it, anyway. So, instead, he watched, grimacing slightly every time he heard one of her friends say something overly prejudiced in front of her, even as she simply acknowledged the remark with a slightly disapproving look and moved on.

He would have settled for being able to treat her as he always did, when she was simply _Rigel_. But he didn’t trust himself to do that, given his new knowledge. She wasn’t _Rigel._ She was _Harriett_. She was a girl, and he had not been taught to treat girls, or young women, the same way he treated other men. So, other than the unfortunate fact that they were both in the Dueling club, he avoided talking to her, for all that he still watched her.

In Dueling club, he had to duel her, because he could find no other reason to refuse. Unlike with Pansy, he couldn’t refuse on principle, so instead he threw himself into it gingerly, reluctantly. It helped that it didn’t matter – she danced circles around him, dodging his attacks and demolishing him with a few well-placed curses and hexes. It wasn’t even difficult for her, and even if Aldon never really _tried_ when he dueled her, he was certain she could defeat him even if he did try. But they rarely talked, other than small comments, here and there.

“You have to be more aggressive,” she commented, over and over again. “If you want to win in a duel, you need to _want_ to win.”

He would smirk, say something meaningless and that he hoped was appropriately _himself_ , and agree with her. She would roll her ugly grey eyes, and they would move on to dueling other students.

By the end of January, however, his own work began to interfere with his study of her. He still had most of a year of work to cover for the ICW Secondary Examination in Magical Theory, and all of his electives were becoming more difficult too. Professor Snape had, finally, in late January, had enough of Aldon’s squeamishness and poor knife skills and put him in a month’s worth of detentions chopping ingredients for the lower-years. After each one, Aldon locked himself in the bathroom he shared with Ed, trying to scrub the feeling of Flobberworm flesh and Salamander eyes and frog livers out of his fingers. It was disgusting, and if anything, Aldon was pretty sure it did no good.

And in early February, for the first time, he missed a curse on his puzzle box for Curse-breaking.

He and Alexander Willoughby, whom he had long-since gotten on first name terms with, secured one of Ravenclaw Tower’s experimentation rooms. They already solved Alex’s box earlier that week, and this time, as usual, they set his box on the other end of the room and began blitzing array of revealing spells at it.

“ _Revelio!”_ Aldon snapped, jabbing his wand at the cursed box, eyes narrowed in focus, his magic ready to copy as much of the signature provided by the box as possible. Alex, a tall, lanky, boy with three inches on Aldon, chestnut brown hair and summer-blue eyes, stood at the ready to shield. Some boxes would react to particular revealing spells, and Revelio happened to be the most common one and, therefore, the logical place to start.

There was nothing, not even a glimmer – not even the responses he expected. It didn’t react.

“Wards?” Alex mused, tilting his head to study the box. He focused, casting a wordless spell to make the magic on it visible, and was rewarded when three circling lines of magic appeared. Three?

Aldon approached his box, with caution, even as Alex sucked in a breath. Of the entire class, they were the only ones not to have failed a box yet. Everyone in class had gotten into groups to solve them, and of the three groups, the Gryffindors had failed seven boxes so far, and the Hufflepuffs failed four of theirs and gotten half marks on another one which, though they managed to open without it exploding or cursing them, they set off the Caterwauling Charm on it and, Professor Newman reminded them cheerfully, probably would have died from whatever _else_ was guarding the treasure.

The magic lines were, if he squinted, runes. He waved Alex forward with a casual hand, and Alex approached gingerly and squatted down. “Better not be a trick, Aldon. I _like_ our record.”

Aldon resisted rolling his eyes and cast a spell to magnify the tiny, circling, golden runes so that they could identify them. “No, they’re runes. Newman cast a _runic_ ward this time to hide the other spells. How much do you remember from our Runes class?”

Alex wrinkled his nose, eyeing the patiently circling, tiny runic lines. “Hated Runes. Too much memorization. Your area of expertise.”

“Liar,” Aldon muttered, even as he searched for the ward’s keystones. He recognized some of them, but he was hardly a walking rune dictionary. His comment had nothing to do with his gift, this time – of the two of them, Alex was far better at memorization and at recognizing spells. He just didn’t seem to like applying it to Runes. Alex was the only reason Aldon’s essays for Curse-breaking weren’t littered with phrases like “a curse that felt like fire but wasn’t Incendio”, or “a transfiguration spell of some kind”, or, perhaps least helpful, “something Dark”. Aldon didn’t always know what the curses he broke _were –_ he usually had some idea, based on how the spell _felt_ , of what it would do if not broken, but couldn’t make it any more precise. Disabling them was easier, because usually you could find the weak point of the spell by feel alone.

He found two of the keystone runes and threw raw power at them with his wand to break them. The runic ward flickered, but held, and he cursed silently. He hoped he hadn’t disabled them out of order – there was always an _ideal_ order to break multilayered curses, and while disabling them out of order wouldn’t always lead to any meaningful difference, on occasion they could make it that much harder to trace the other curses to break.

“There,” Alex interrupted his train of thought, aiming his wand at a particular rune and firing a small puff of power at it. The ward disappeared, and they retreated to the other side of the room to fire spells at it again.

“ _Revelio!_ ” Aldon snapped, and this time the box reacted, spilling out waves of magic that he and Alex mirrored in their auras. Something that was meant to burn or scald, but it felt more like acid than fire, a weak explosive spell, probably Confringo, a Bombardment hex, something he suspected was meant to blind him, a Wailing or Caterwauling charm… There was also something on the lock itself, a Dark sealing charm that, if not disabled would … drain his magic until it killed him? Really? Then the classic locking charm, this one with plenty of power behind it, too.

He wrinkled his nose in distaste, and by the surprised look on Alex’s face, he had felt it too. “He’s never put on anything so Dark or violent on the puzzle boxes.”

“Must be confident we could disable it,” Alex replied, frowning slightly. “Or a trick hiding something else. _Praecantatio Aparecium._ ”

There was another flash, and Aldon was too slow with his magic to capture its signature. 

“A Befuddlement Charm,” Alex said. “Not a strong one. Meant to trigger when _Alohomora_ is cast on the lock.”

Aldon made a non-committal noise, pointing his wand at the box again. “ _Praecantatio Revelio_.” Sometimes a more specific revealing spell would have better results than a general one, but all that came up were the spells he had already identified. He ran through them mentally. “Eight spells?”

“That is about the number that Professor Newman usually puts on the boxes,” Alex agreed, if slightly uneasily. They were always uneasy about the boxes, because Professor Newman was a tricky old bastard. That was, Aldon suspected, partly how he managed to hold onto his position at Hogwarts despite increasing Ministry oversight and disapproval, how he managed to still teach as much of the _correct_ information as he could while toeing the line on controversial subjects. They could never be sure if they had all the curses, and even if they hadn’t _failed_ any of the boxes yet, there had been more than one close call.

Aldon reached to disable the Wailing or Caterwauling charm first; he always did, because usually they were set to go off when any of the other spells were tampered with. Once done, he reached for the blinding charm, because spells affecting cognition or the senses were usually triggered by disabling the offensive spells. Then he disabled the two explosive spells, then the spell that tasted like acid, with directed puffs of raw power into their weak points. Alex took care of the Dark curse on the lock – as a Neutral-Light wizard, the diametrically opposed Light counter-curse came easier to him than it did to Aldon, while Aldon usually took care of the Neutral-Dark counter-curses on Light hexes. Aldon disabled the Befuddlement Charm, and Alex overpowered the locking charm with a simple _Alohomora_.

They both retreated behind the automatically-triggering shielding spells that every Ravenclaw experimentation room was equipped with, and just to be sure, Aldon cast another round of revealing charms at the box. _Revelio, Aparecium, Velamen Detraho_ , _Praecantatio Revelio, Precantatio Aparecium , Detego…_ Every now and then Alex threw in a revealing charm of his own, but ten minutes later, they hadn’t uncovered anything new.

Aldon exchanged a glance with his friend, who shrugged uneasily. There was something niggling at Aldon’s senses, too, something that didn’t feel quite right, but he had no idea what it could be. The box appeared to be completely devoid of any spells whatsoever. He took a deep breath and pointed his wand at the box.

“ _Cistem Aperio!”_ They always cast the opening charm rather than physically opening the boxes themselves. It was a safety measure drilled into them in the first term, immediately after Kirke had burned his eyebrows off. One _always_ broke curses from as far a distance as could be managed, because they weren’t perfect, because at some point, they would miss something, and being farther away increased their chances of surviving whatever curse or spell lashed out against them.

For a second, Aldon thought they had succeeded. It was enough for both he and Alex to drop their guard, to take a couple steps closer to the puzzle box.

Then the box exploded.

Instinctively, Aldon flinched and cast an overpowered _Fortis_ , a beat slower than Alex who had cast _Protego_ around them both. They needn’t have worried, however, because the room’s defenses kicked in naturally, and it wasn’t a strong explosion charm to begin with. It was loud, but the resulting explosion and fire was only enough to burn a hole through the bottom of the box.

Aldon dropped his shield, sighing. There went their perfect record. Well, it had to happen sometime, though he heard Alex curse lightly behind him.

He went down to the box and crouched down beside it, poking at the open box. Professor Newman had left a couple Chocolate Frogs inside, both protected by some sort of shield charm in the packaging – small solace, there. He threw one of the Frogs to Alex absently, then poked at the bottom of the box. He traced the magic left in the air – it didn’t feel like any spell or charm that he knew. It tasted like pure magic, not formed magic, anyway.

“Fire-starting rune, I think,” Alex said, chewing on his Chocolate Frog. “One rune, probably carved on the bottom of the box. Didn’t see it because we never flipped the box over – probably wasn’t even hidden. It was just so small and underpowered that we didn’t pick up on it underneath all the other curses.”

His voice held a note of disgust, and privately Aldon agreed. It was a stupid thing to miss – it would have glowed under the revealing charms, but they hadn’t seen it because the box was on the floor, and it was only triggered to go off when the box was opened. “We better start writing, then,” he sighed. Despite knowing that their streak would be broken at some point, it was still disappointing when it happened. And in Curse-breaking the next day, Professor Newman had a good laugh at their expense, as they stood and detailed for the rest of the class the importance of considering a problem from multiple physical angles.

With all the distractions of classes, of his studies, he had little choice but to put the problem of Harriett Potter in the back of his mind. He would work it out later. 

XXX

Before Aldon knew it, it was in May, and he _still_ had no idea how he was supposed to interact with Harriett when she was _Rigel_ as opposed to simply being _Harriett_. On one hand, he had no desire to reveal her secrets, or to do anything that might risk her ruse, and that meant he needed to treat her like he always did when she was simply Rigel. But on the other hand, he didn’t like that either. Blood-status or not, Harriett Potter was a highborn noble _lady_ , and it rubbed him wrong to treat her as he did previously. As a result, he still largely avoided her, and his interactions with her were limited to Dueling club and the unfortunate hilarity that she had been subjected to on Valentine’s Day. That day, Aldon had, rather stiffly, agreed to deliver a pile of valentines for the Hufflepuffs to Cedric Diggory in Ward Construction, who would pass them on. She didn’t pick up on his stiffness, but then, she was likely distracted by the whirlwind of valentines landing in her lap. Or, perhaps, she simply chalked it up to his not wanting to be one of her messengers of love.

It was not a situation which could continue indefinitely, and he _needed_ to figure out how he was supposed to interact with her going forward. Unless he simply never wanted to interact with her again, and that was not an agreeable option to him. She was far too interesting.

But it was May, and the ICW Secondary Examination was fast approaching. He had again commandeered one of the Slytherin study rooms to study magical theory, by the convenient method of pulling rank and glaring at the underclassmen until they relented. It didn’t work as well on the seventh-years, admittedly, but since Aldon had gotten the smallest room, they didn’t care so much.

By this point, he had gotten through all the useful texts the texts at least once, taking notes along the way, and he was busy summarizing those notes into useable study notes. The difficulty with writing the ICW Secondary Examinations was that he didn’t know anyone else who had written them, and he therefore had no idea what questions were normally covered. For OWLs and NEWTs, there were piles of old exams to review and cover, but none such existed for the standard European examinations. Without any focus of what might be covered, Aldon simply … studied everything. It was all _interesting,_ so while it was a lot of work, he couldn’t say that he was too concerned.

It was there that Ed found him, poring over notes on the general differences in forms of magic. Cast spells, regardless of whether it was classified as a charm, transfiguration, or defensive spell, were worked differently from potions, from runic arrays, or creature magic, and sometimes different again depending on channeling methods. There had been an extremely interesting chapter in one of the books about international channeling methods, since not all Wizarding cultures used wands – much of Asia was still reliant on paper charms and seals, whereas the African wizarding community still used complex hand gestures and voice to shape and cast spells, and he dutifully took notes.

“Aldon,” Ed said, poking his head in the door. He was frowning thoughtfully.

“What is it?” Aldon prompted. It wasn’t wholly unusual for Ed to join him to study, but he wasn’t carrying any of his books, and it was unlike Ed to otherwise disturb him while he was studying.

“I just had,” he paused, thinking his words over, “an _odd_ conversation with Professor Pettigrew after Care of Magical Creatures.”

Aldon sat back in his chair, stretching out the kink in his back, and tilted his head in invitation. “What do you mean, _odd_?”

Ed came in and sat down, shrugging slightly. “It was just _odd_. Professor Pettigrew asked about Rigel, asked how he was doing. I know Pettigrew was one of the four founders of the Marauders brand, but…”

“But if that were the case, he would have asked earlier in the year. Maybe he didn’t know that we were friends with him?” Aldon suggested, carefully monitoring his pronouns. Harriett deserved the respect of being referred to by her proper gender in his head, but he certainly could not say so out loud.

“Yes, but he looked … not himself, when he asked, either.” Ed thought, head tilted slightly to one side as he tried to work it out. “Professor Pettigrew is normally very hesitant, though he is good with the creatures, and he never checks the homework. When we ask him questions, he usually can’t answer and he just refers us to the textbook.”

Aldon nodded, listening. On rare occasions, Ed sometimes liked to talk through his problems, but they were few and far between.

“But when he was asking about Rigel, he became very … focused? Intent. He clearly had an ulterior motive for asking, it was all very carefully nonchalant, and obviously planned. He first asked if I was acquainted with Rigel, though it was obvious he knew the answer, and when I said yes, he asked how Rigel was doing. I said that I hadn’t heard of anything suggesting he was not fine, and then he asked, and I quote, “Is he a good wizard?” I told him I didn’t know what he meant by that, and he asked me, quite directly, if Rigel was _powerful_.”

Aldon straightened, focusing on his friend. That could not be good. “And then?”

Ed quirked an eyebrow up, almost amused. “Down, Aldon. Of course, I didn’t answer that. I asked why he was asking me, and that was when he told me he was close friends with Rigel’s parents, and that he was disappointed not to have him in his class. It was strange, but I didn’t see any reason to question it, so I said instead that in Slytherin, the upper-years didn’t have much to do with the lower-years.”

Aldon nodded, lips pressed together. “But you’re telling me this because you think he knew you were lying.”

Ed shrugged. “I wasn’t sure. Normally I would say that Professor Pettigrew is simply not that observant or intelligent, but he wasn’t himself when he asked. I wasn’t sure what to do.”

“He had to know you were lying,” Aldon replied, pulling together his sheaf of notes and collecting them into his messenger bag. Even if he had, by default, claimed this study room, he didn’t dare leave his Magical Theory notes behind. They were too controversial, and all he needed were idiot lower-years with loose tongues spreading rumours far and wide about Aldon’s research into _controversial_ topics. “Even if he didn’t, though, other students talk. He killed a basilisk last year. Even asking is odd, when the answer is staring in front of him. Do you think he was trying to get some other sort of information about Rigel from you?”

Ed grimaced and nodded. “I think so, but based on his questions, I’m not sure what he was searching for. You do keep an unhealthily close eye on Rigel, though, so I was curious as to what you might know?”

Aldon shook his head, but didn’t bother denying that his fixation on Harriett was, to put it mildly, unhealthy. Still, her secrets were her own. “I haven’t the foggiest. I only know as much as most. But we should probably tell Rigel about this. I saw the third-years studying at the small table in the corner, a few hours ago – they should still be there.”

Ed nodded agreeably, and fortunately Harriett, Pansy and Draco were still huddled around the small corner table in the common room. It was late, but not so late that the common room had fully cleared out. Aldon let Ed take the lead, and noted with a hint of pleasure that Harriett’s eyes dropped to him automatically.

“Sorry to disturb your studying,” Ed said politely, stopping at their table and acknowledging Pansy and Draco with a slight nod. “But I have a matter which I think Rigel needs to hear.”

Harriett straightened from her textbook, Charms, it looked like, tilting her head curiously. “What is it?”

“Are you acquainted with Professor Pettigrew?”

“Not well,” she replied, drawing the words out thoughtfully. “Why?”

“He held me after class today to ask about you,” Ed said, frowning lightly in concern. “I suppose he heard we were friendly.”

“You can say “friends”,” Harriett smiled slightly. While her expression was interested, her eyes were cautious.

“Friends, then” Ed agreed, returning her smile for caution. “Pettigrew asked after you. He said he was an old friend of your parents and was disappointed not to have you in his class. He wanted to know how you were doing lately. I found it odd, so I thought I would mention it.”

Her expression froze for a second, and Aldon could see the thoughts whirring through her ugly grey contacts as she swallowed a thought. She opened her mouth to respond, but Pansy, no doubt catching her friend’s expression, interrupted.

“Pettigrew asked me about you, too,” she said, her blue eyes sharp. “I didn’t think to mention it, because it was in passing, but it is a little strange.”

“What did he ask you?” Harriett asked quietly, and from his perspective, Aldon could see her clenching her fist in her lap and squeezing wrinkles into her robes.

Pansy shrugged slightly. “Nothing that made any sense. He asked how you were doing in classes and if I thought you were a good wizard. I said I wouldn’t be friends with you if you weren’t – it was supposed to be a joke, but I don’t think he got it.”

“Do you know him at all?” Draco asked, his voice concerned, though Harriett had smoothed her face back into a polite blankness. “Why is he asking questions about you? You said you only saw him that one time in the Hospital Wing. Did you talk?”

_The Hospital Wing?_ Aldon sharpened his eyes on the Malfoy scion, though he doubted he would pick anything else up. It wasn’t a lie, so clearly Aldon had not been paying the kind of attention he should have on Harriett Potter. He cursed Professor Snape’s still-ongoing detentions – he did about fifteen of them already, but apparently he hadn’t attained the knife skills that Snape was aiming for yet, so they continued.

“Not really,” Harriett replied, leaning back, her hands now carefully relaxed and her tone dismissive. “He is an old friend of my family, so maybe … he’s just curious about his friend’s son. I’m sure it’s nothing.”  It was a blatant lie, but Aldon hardly needed his gift to guess that.

“Keep away from him,” Ed advised bluntly. “I didn’t like the look in his eye. He’s up to something.”

“If you say so,” Harriett said evenly, even as there was a flash of panic in her eyes. “I’m not in his class, so I can’t see how we’d cross paths with him anyway. Thank you for the warning, though.”

Ed nodded, turning to the sixth-year dorms, while Aldon, carefully looking at Pansy and Draco rather than at Harriett, wished them a polite, if unusually quiet, good evening, and followed after his friend.

He really needed to work out how he was going to deal with Harriett in the future. 

XXX

That weekend, Peter Pettigrew died, and Harriett Potter, in her guise as Rigel Black, was in the Hospital Wing. Try as he might, Aldon couldn’t find out anything more than the public rumours. Pansy knew what had happened, but, unusually, directly said that if Aldon was curious he ought to ask Rigel himself. Her hesitation, the serious expression on her face told Aldon all he needed to know – whatever it was, it was serious enough that Pansy would not give up her friend’s secrets. Draco, too, knew, but while their relationship was no longer _frosty_ , one could not say it was particularly _warm_ , either. If anything, Aldon was _annoyed_ at Harriett’s friends. Now that he knew what he was looking for, the clues were so _obvious_ , and it irked him that neither of them saw the secret right under their eyes. Or, maybe, it irked him that _he_ now saw the attitudes that Harriett had to put up with simply to get into Hogwarts.

It _really_ irked him when he saw or heard those attitudes from her friends. Malfoy, Nott were key perpetrators– it wasn’t like they threw out comments on a daily basis, or even that they went out of their way to make prejudicial comments. No, it was more routine. More insidious. It existed as an unspoken miasma around them, the belief that _of course Muggleborns and halfbloods can’t do magic like we can_ , with their _half-formed cores_ and their _meddling with magic they couldn’t possibly understand_. Harriett was a halfblood. And he probably was one, too, according to Archibald’s Theory of Increasing Organization.

So when Harriett’s friends, those who _knew_ what had happened to her, didn’t want to tell him anything, Aldon wasn’t inclined to press them on it. Instead, he snuck into the Hospital Wing, a week or so after whatever had happened, while Harriett was sleeping.

“Mr. Rosier, what can I do for you?” Madam Pomfrey bustled out of her office, positioned a little too conveniently by the entrance to the Hospital Wing. She looked him over professionally; she always did, for anyone entering her Wing. He wondered vaguely if she had worked out Harriett’s secret. There were a wide range of diagnostic spells, and her sex would affect some treatments as well, which explained why she avoided the Hospital Wing as much as possible. However, she had landed in the Hospital Wing twice this term, so surely Madam Pomfrey had thrown the usual battery of diagnostic spells at her, and one of them would have identified her sex?

Madam Pomfrey frowned at his long silence. “Is there something wrong, Mr. Rosier?”

He snapped out of it. It didn’t matter. If she knew, she hadn’t said anything thus far. Perhaps it was covered by Healer-patient confidentiality. “I’m here visiting Rigel, Madam,” he said, putting on a smile. It was one of his more charming ones, with a dash of hesitancy. “I’m not missing classes right now, it’s a spare period for me.”

“Hmm,” she replied, glancing behind her into the Hospital Wing. “I’m afraid that Mr. Black is sleeping. He fell asleep after Miss Parkinson and Mr. Malfoy left at the end of lunch.”

It was true – and without a hint of partial truth or omission around it. So Madam Pomfrey probably didn’t know. He didn’t know how Harriett had gotten out of it, but then, she was resourceful. “I won’t wake him,” Aldon promised, willing his eyes to reflect sincerity. “I’ll just sit with him for a little, if that’s all right?”

“I suppose,” Madam Pomfrey agreed gingerly, only slightly suspicious. “There’s little point to sitting with a sleeping person, though.”

“I just want to make sure he’s all right, Madam Pomfrey,” Aldon promised, but he needn’t have bothered. The stately matron disappeared back into her office, shaking her head, and Aldon took seat beside Harriett.

She was thinner than she ought to have been after less than a week and looked even smaller curled into a ball under the sheets. She was always small compared to the other boys in her year, but knowing that she was a girl, he realized she was really of average height and size for her age. He looked around – Madam Pomfrey was still in her office, and if he craned his head, he could see that she was checking over the potions stores and organizing them.

The board at the end of the bed, Madam Pomfrey’s medical notes, were stuck with on with a minor sticking charm. Quietly, staying level, he reached over to hold it before disabling the charm with a small puff of raw power. There were countercurses and counterspells, of course, but the advantage of using raw power was that, even if it required more skill and knowledge, it was untraceable if properly done. Since it wasn’t a proper spell, _Priori Incantatem_ was useless.

_Patient reports general malnourishment, residual effects of poisons throughout system, moderate intestinal damage, residual effects of severe dehydration. No diagnostic tests completed – patient refused consent._ And later, _mental shielding fluctuating and inconsistent – suspect severe mental trauma. Core coils are not reactive, but patient appears able to do magic. Unknown cause. Patient expresses no concerns, states a reaction of mental technique performed. Monitor for developments._

Professor Pettigrew was dead. The most common theory among the students was that he had attacked Rigel Black, who had killed him in self-defence. It was a theory that worked with the known facts, as few of them as there were. Aurors had visited that night, taking a statement from her, too, and he had no reason to believe the theory was false, for all that it was not as detailed as he would like. Still. The fact that it had even happened was … distressing.

Harriett Potter had no one to look out for her at Hogwarts. She was highborn, noble. She ought to have had as many people looking out for her as Pansy did, as Alice did, as others of her rank, blood-status be damned. Aldon was a gentleman, and it did not sit well with him that Harriett didn’t have these things. Harriett never should have had to kill anyone, in self-defense or otherwise. She shouldn’t have had to face whatever attack had happened alone. It just … it didn’t make sense to him. Intellectually, he knew that this was a choice she had taken – by adopting the persona of her cousin, of Rigel Black, she gave up the privileges of her sex. She accepted the risks and dangers of being male, not least to mention the risks of being caught and tried for blood identity theft. He even knew that, of all people, Harriett Potter was one of the most capable people he knew, well able to handle most of the risks. It didn't change the fact that she _shouldn't have had to_.

And, as the only person who knew Harriett’s true identity and sex, Aldon couldn’t help but feel complicit. He knew who she was, and he hadn’t ever attempted to protect her, other than an offhand attempt to exert some social protection at the Gala. He had, in fact, pretty much avoided her since the Gala, because he didn’t know how to treat her, which in retrospect just sounded ridiculous. The reality was, his discomfort over whether he could continue to simply treat her as _Rigel_ meant that there was _no one_ who knew who she was to look out for her. And while he didn’t think that he _necessarily_ would have prevented whatever happened – he really wasn’t that bigheaded – neither could he deny that it _might_ have made a difference.

He slid the clipboard back across Harriett’s bed, using a wordless charm to fix it back into its position at the end of the bed. He sighed, standing up.

Harriett looked at peace when she slept.

Next year was another year. Aldon had the summer to get his head on straight. Harriett would be fine – Malfoy had been going on and on about a healing internship in South America, but Aldon would bet a thousand Galleons that the healing internship was for the real Arcturus Rigel Black, not Harriett Potter, so at least she would be herself all summer. As herself, surely Lord Potter would have the usual protections around her. She would be fine.

Next year, when he next met _Rigel Black_ , things would be different. He’d try, at least, and the _next_ time something happened, maybe he’d be there. 

XXX

After months of studying and stress, the ICW Secondary Examination was disappointingly easy. Not that it was any less difficult than the OWLs had been, really, or that he anticipated the NEWTs would be, more that the OWLs and NEWTs were more stressful since they were all written together. The exam covered basics on the nature of magic, the distinctions between wild and formed magic, between pureblood and Muggleborn magic, with some questions about the different ways that magic could be channeled and a hefty section on natural magic, which he found the most difficult. Still, he finished with about twenty minutes to spare, and spent it reviewing his answers before handing it in to Professor Snape, his exam invigilator.

“Finished, Mr. Rosier?”

Aldon let a cocky half-smile cross his face. “It was easy.”

The professor snorted, holding out his hand for the sheaf of paper. “I hope you’re so confident when your marks come back in the summer.”

In comparison, his regular exams were something of a joke. Curse-breaking hadn’t even had a real exam – they were each given _new_ puzzle boxes to solve, but this time forbidden from help and given a deadline of three hours. He finished out the year, one eye on Harriett (who had been excused from exams altogether and spent hours sitting outside by the lake), and it was a quiet, almost listless, return home for the summer. 

XXX

The New Developments Division was as he remembered it – tucked away in the back of the Rosier Investment Trust, a large, open-concept room with surprisingly few employees but wide, open spaces between desks for experimentation. Aldon was surprised when Father had, quite openly, asked him which division he would like to intern with this year, and he was even more surprised when Father had accepted his request to return to the New Developments Division.

“I’ll have a word with Director Blake,” he had replied, expressionless, after an uncomfortable pause. “I’m sure she can find a role for you.”

Even more shocking, Aldon was being _paid_ this summer. This wasn’t a decision of Father’s, he didn’t think. He had simply arrived his first day, wove his way through the swarm of Father’s sycophants in the other divisions until he reached the unassuming door labelled _New Developments_ , and entered.

Aldon had not met Director Christina Blake previously, as she had been on sabbatical obtaining a Mastery in Alchemy the previous year, and Ryu had taken on the role of acting Director. Still, he had _heard_ about Director Blake – she was apparently a formidable British Muggleborn witch, graduating from Ilvermorny near twenty years ago with a specialty in Alchemy. She joined the Rosier Investment Trust almost immediately after her graduation under the leadership of the old Lord Belden Rosier who,  Sacred Twenty-Eight, noble, and pureblooded or not, was by all accounts a staunch meritocrat.

The political winds were already shifting, then, and it was because of Director Blake's skill, knowledge, and vociferous advocacy that the New Developments Division weathered them. It was because of Director Blake that the New Developments Division still hired such a high proportion of Muggleborns and halfbloods, quiet pressure from Ministry notwithstanding. It was her leadership, her talent for identifying people with _merit_ , which had enamoured her to the old Lord Rosier, and it was under her leadership that the New Developments Division investment choices brought in, on average, fifty percent of the Trust’s income. Even if they were the smallest Division, with the most run-down space, and even if the management of the Trust, including the current Lord Rosier, _never_ publicly recognized them.

And even though Christina Blake was held in nearly mythic status by many of the younger analysts, even though she enjoyed the status of being the _Director_ of their division and was surely entitled to an actual office, she still occupied a corner of the same, large room as her workers, and she still kept her fingers in the same reviews and concept proofs as all of her analysts.

“Aldon Rosier,” she said, when he first came through the door, coming forward to greet him. She was a tall, willowy woman, with dark hair that was pulled casually away from her face, and she moved with grace, if some slight hesitation, and offered him her hand. She had a wide mouth, and she smiled at him, but her brown eyes were cautious. “Your father said that you were interested in returning to New Developments for another summer. He says you are interested in magical theory.”

Aldon paused for a second, a little uncertain about what to do with her hand, because he couldn’t well bow over it as would be his natural inclination, as a noble. That was a pureblood and noble custom, and he was surrounded by Muggleborns and halfbloods who, even if he was the son of the Head, would mock him to no end if he did. It was only his distraction that he noticed, and nearly stopped breathing.

She had his hands.

Her hand was his hand, on another body – long, tapered fingers, ring finger a touch longer than his index finger, short nails that, no matter how much Aldon tried to grow them, never stayed long or protected his fingers fully. He lost count of the number of times he had cut his fingers in Potions class. His hands were not his father’s, whose fingers were round sausages with thick nails, nor his mother's, who had tiny hands.

But his hands were her hands.

His eyes snapped up to hers, even as he forced himself to breathe, to relax. He returned the smile, hesitant, and he could tell that Director Blake had caught his surprise. She ought to have been confused, a little annoyed, by his delay in response, but instead she seemed to be waiting, slightly nervous, for a reply. He scanned her face – it was heart-shaped, not like his, but their chins were both pointed – Father’s was square, and Mother’s round. Her earlobes were detached, like his. A sneaking suspicion rooted itself in the back of his mind.

She was about the right age – she would have started at the Trust about the same time as his father. She was Muggleborn. And in a world where Muggleborns were already being pushed out of Society, where many Muggleborns were already staying abroad after graduation, it was not as though Father would have had much opportunity to meet a Muggleborn witch. Particularly one who had his hands. And his chin. And his ears.

“That’s right,” he said, taking her hand and shaking it as he had seen commoners do in Diagon Alley. He was glad to hear that his voice, at least, contained none of the breathless panic that had infused his head. That was good; he babbled on to cover his shock. “At Hogwarts, I am taking Charms, Transfiguration, Potions, Ancient Runes, Curse-breaking, and Ward Construction at NEWT-level. I am hoping to do a Mastery in Magical Theory after I finish at Hogwarts.”

She nodded, and Aldon noted she didn’t seem surprised that he wasn’t taking Magical Theory at NEWT-level. “A good selection, for Hogwarts. Well, you are welcome here. Ryu tells me that last year you shadowed most of them on a part-time basis, so you have some idea of what we do. I’m afraid for the most part you’ll mostly be pulling research for the other analysts, but I will see if we have some smaller pitches for you to review. We always seem to have people with madcap inventions wanting funding, and most of them don’t have any value, but someone needs to check. Your desk will be that corner one – I know it doesn’t have much space, but it’s the only open desk right now. Do you have any preferences for area of work?”

Aldon shook his head regretfully, turning towards the corner she had gestured to, with the empty desk. It was the same size as the other analysts’ desks, but it looked to be unpopular because there was less space around it for experimentation or design, and no chalkboard. “My interests tend to be very theoretical. I would say I’m strong in Charms, and Runes.”

Director Blake nodded thoughtfully, glancing over to a board at the head of the room listing assignments. That was new – last year, Ryu had simply passed out assignments as he received them. It _was_ interesting, though, knowing what everyone else was working on. She walked over to it, scanning the lists and picking one from near the bottom – _Bubble-Head Ring for Underwater Exploration_ , it read, and she scrawled his name, Aldon Rosier, next to it.

She made her cursive “r”s the same way he did, with a large scrawl upwards on the capital and dropping any semblance of the smaller loops on the small r, turning it into nothing more than a slight hump.

“Feel free to ask anyone questions if you have trouble or if you don’t know where to start,” she said, pulling out a thick wad of parchment from the piles on her desk and handing it to him. Glancing down at it, he realized it was the pitch for the device. “Now, your father didn’t mention a salary for you, and unfortunately our budget is rather restricted at the moment, so would you mind if we paid you twenty Galleons a week? It isn’t much, I know, but it’s all I can really offer right now.”

Aldon blinked, surprised – he hadn’t been _paid_ his last two summers, and his parents still, for all the distance that had grown between them, provided him with everything he could ever want. Still, he couldn’t see any reason why his own source of savings wouldn’t be useful. “That sounds fine, Director Blake,” he replied, purposely injecting his voice with cheer.

She smiled, a touch pleased for all that her eyes were still cautious, and waved him to his new desk. 

XXX

Over the following weeks, Aldon worked on his own assignment off and on between frequent visits to both well-known and obscure bookshops, public and private libraries, and nearly all the Guilds, to locate and obtain research materials for the more senior analysts.  Some of the materials were held at very _picky_ institutions, and while Aldon was able to charm his way into most of them, relying on a combination of his name, his looks, and insincere but well-faked flattery, a few of the institutions had proven more difficult. The Potions Guild always required an incredibly specific letter of permission from the Division’s resident Potions Master, which Aldon took to drafting ahead of time for the Division’s crotchety Master Phillips to sign. The Runes Guild had refused him entry into the Selected Archives of their Library until he had, as they put it, “proven his worth” by breaking into it, so approximately six scouting visits later, he broke through the runic ward shielding the door to Selected Archives. After that, the ward was apparently constructed to remember his magical signature, and so he had free entry as he pleased. Two months later, there was only one Guild he hadn’t managed to gain entry to.

It was not without some trepidation that he first approached the Alchemy Guild. It was common knowledge in Society that the House of Albright, a family of fanatical Light supremacists, had established a choke-hold on the Guild in the late eighteenth century and that no one had yet managed to pry it from their grasp. They also, just after the fall of Grindelwald, established Illuminux Inc., their private family corporation which bought and sold materials for the Guild, often causing supply shortages and surpluses. Illuminux Inc. was undeniably corrupt and intermingled extensively with the Alchemy Guild, which was why most prominent Alchemists and those hoping to become Alchemists now trained abroad. Even Professor Dumbledore, Light wizard that he was, had done his advanced training in Italy. The House of Albright either didn’t know, or were too big-headed to care, that they had long since lost any prestige.

Aldon happened to be in the same class as the Heir to the House of Albright, who he considered to be a study in attractiveness. Eric Albright was, frankly, stunningly beautiful – thick blond hair, blue eyes, high cheekbones, full, eminently kissable lips. He was also tall, about half a head taller than Aldon, and lean – the perfect height for Aldon to rest his head on his shoulders, if he were so inclined. If it weren’t for his frankly abhorrent personality, Aldon was sure he would have developed a serious crush on the tall Ravenclaw.

Eric Albright was cruel, and meaninglessly so. Slytherins, while they could be cutting, always had reasons for the things they said, and generally tended to try to keep decent relations with most people. It didn’t make sense to make enemies that one didn’t need to make, and one never knew when someone would turn out to be a good connection. Eric Albright believed he didn’t need those connections, believed whole-heartedly that because he was an Albright, he was superior. Many people thought they were superior, of course – just consider Draco Malfoy, though half of that was just a front – but Eric Albright genuinely, to his core, believed it. He was a strident Light-supremacist, making snide comments on other students’ affinities throughout his classes, though Aldon had seen his Transfigurations and the other boy was mostly Neutral in his casting. Perhaps Neutral-Light, but even Alex had a stronger Light affinity than he did. His family wasn’t political, wasn’t affiliated with Professor Dumbledore’s Light faction, thought it might have been logical for them to be; Aldon suspected that politically, they were opposed to the pro-Muggleborn, anti-blood-discrimination positions espoused by the Light. Albright rarely talked to anyone, including his own Housemates, and anyone who attempted to talk to him was quickly dissuaded.

In short – despite his incredibly good looks, Aldon didn’t like him, and he was emphatically _not_ looking forward to any potential interaction with him at the Alchemy Guild. Which is where he was, that day, because Director Blake was looking for a copy of a treatise that only they had.

The Alchemy Guild’s gates were made of shining gold, though after a quick examination, Aldon smirked; they were only gilded in gold paint, albeit a solid coat and very convincing. The metal itself, when he tried to run his magic through it, had a coefficient much higher, probably iron. He pushed at the gate lightly, but it didn’t open. Interesting – the other Guilds, as much as they liked to emphasize how _intelligent_ and _superior_ they were, always let outsiders in to fully demonstrate their glory. It was only their precious research materials that was kept under lock and key. Still, he supposed one never knew with the Alchemy Guild.

He stood back, pulling out his wand and casting a wordless magic revealing spell on the gates. There was a runic ward on the gates, he saw. He picked out the runes for light, and the way the magic shimmered uncomfortably in his Sight, he could tell it was a Light ward, meant to keep out Dark wizards. Ah, that would be why he couldn’t enter – the gate must have sensed his neutral-Dark affinity and rejected him. Still, how dull. Dark magic was the natural opposite of Light, and while the ward might be effective in keeping him out, now that he knew what the problem was, the counter was easy.

In an almost casual gesture, he wove his wand through a series of runes, picking Dark runes for trickery, concealment and deceit, then a series of Light runes, to calm and lull a sense of security. He picked out a few more runes for precision and accuracy to add on top of the mix. It was a counter-ward, and rather than casting it at the gate, however, he cast it on himself. He might have been able to break the ward on the gate, with enough time and effort, but he didn’t _need_ to make an enemy of the Alchemists’ Guild (or… more of one than he already was), and it would be vastly counter-productive to his mission of borrowing the treatise Director Blake needed. All his ward did was run interference with the gate’s wards, providing a screen for his magic so that it would read him as Neutral-Light in affinity, thereby allowing him entry.

By comparison with the gilded gates, the Guild Hall was almost dour in decoration. They were light on the gilt, with bare expanses on the walls instead of the usual portraits of prominent Guild members. There was a sweeping staircase at the end, reaching to the upper levels, but it was cold stone and the railings were cobwebbed in the corners. It was by far the emptiest Guild he had ever visited – all the rest had near-constant foot traffic through the main hall, but there was only a sleepy receptionist behind a desk near the front entrance, reading the day’s Daily Prophet.

“I’m looking for the Library,” he said, leaning lightly on the counter. “Mistress Blake has requested that I obtain for her a copy of _The Impact of Muggle Agricultural Practices on Magical Coefficients_.”

“Library is down the hall and to your left,” the man said, voice bored, eyes never leaving the newspaper.  “Doors are marked with a carving of Nicholas Flamel and the Philosopher’s Stone.”

Aldon thanked him, turning to head down the hall, only to curse under his breath as he spotted Eric Albright bustling towards him, a haughty expression of fury on his face. It was just his luck.

“Rosier, who let _you_ in here?” he snapped, eyes narrowed.

He sighed internally. He was not in the mood for this. “I let myself in through the gates. I won’t be here long, Albright; I was sent by Mistress Blake for a copy of _The Impact of Muggle Agricultural Practices on Magical Coefficients._ ”

Albright ignored him entirely, stopping just in front of him and stabbing his finger at him. Aldon was almost amused to note that Albright’s finger purposely stopped several inches away from his chest, as though Aldon carried an infectious disease. “You are not welcome here, Rosier. The Alchemy Guild will never be open to Dark wizards.”

Aldon leaned back, annoyed and very carefully not showing it. Instead, he examined his fingernails. “As you can see, I did manage to get through the gates, which I think argues that I am not, in fact, a Dark wizard.”

“Of course you are,” Albright snapped. “With your family history, you could hardly be anything else.”

He had completely missed the point, because of course Albright wasn’t just bigoted, he was a bigoted moron. Did he not remember the wards on his own Guild gates? His comments on _family history_ , with what Aldon now knew, cut slightly, but Aldon ignored it. It wasn’t like Albright would know that Aldon was a probable halfblood bastard. He kept his voice calm, though his ire was rising. “As I said, I am not here for myself, but on behalf of Mistress Blake, who is looking to borrow a treatise.”

“Mistress Blake? I don’t even know who that is,” Albright replied scornfully. “You’re just looking to steal knowledge for yourself, not that Alchemy would even work for you. It is a Light act. Precise, ordered – you wouldn’t be capable of it.”

If Dark wizards wouldn’t be able to do it anyway, then why would you even keep it a secret, Aldon snarled internally, but didn’t say it. He kept his voice politely, coolly, even. “Mistress Blake. She obtained her Mastery in Alchemy last year at the Salem Institute. She’s looking for a copy of _The Impact of Muggle Agricultural Practices on Magical Coefficients,_ as I said. I understand that the Alchemy Guild has the only copy in Britain.”

“Oh,” Albright waved his hand dismissively, eyes narrowed in dislike. “Then you can leave. The English Guild is not open to half-arsed pretend Masters from other countries, particularly not Mudbloods who could never understand the glorious art of Alchemy anyway.”

“Fine,” Aldon snapped, dropping his pretense of politeness. Clearly, it wasn’t going to be of any use, though he should have figured it wouldn’t. “I’ll remind you that by that reasoning, Professor Dumbledore isn’t permitted into the Guild Hall either, since he did his Mastery in Italy with Master Flamel, yet I doubt you have barred him entry. We’ll import a copy of the treatise from abroad, and you and your Guild can continue wallowing in mediocrity while the remainder of the academic world moves on.”

He turned around and left, making a note to return and break the damn ward on the gates when he had a spare hour or two.

Back at the office, the other analysts howled with laughter as he reported the unsuccessful result to Director Blake. It turned out no one had actually expected him to be able to get in. Rather, even making it into the Guild Hall was an accomplishment, as every other analyst had either been blocked by the gates or caught on the grounds. Director Blake herself laughed so hard that she almost cried, and cheerfully informed him that she had ordered a copy of that very treatise from America a week ago, and that she expected it to arrive in a few days. Surrounded by the laughter of his co-workers, Aldon ruefully let it go. 

XXX

Aldon hadn’t forgotten the disturbing similarities between him and Director Blake. She treated him as she did any of the other analysts, with a kind and professional manner, but on at least one occasion, he thought he had caught her gaze lingering on him with a particularly thoughtful expression. It wasn’t as if, if his suspicions were correct, that she would be able to do anything about it. His family was powerful, and he didn’t know what had transpired between her and his father, but given his father’s ruthless business habits, he could guess. He was certain that, if Director Blake were his biological mother, she was under some sort of threat to ensure that he never found out. 

She never spoke about her family, he noticed. Ryu boasted at length about the accomplishments of his twins, both attending school at Mahoutokoro, and both of whom, apparently, were devils on broomsticks. Albert’s children had reached the precious pureblood-by-definition standard and would be allowed to attend Hogwarts when they were eleven. Even Aman had mentioned her young family, bemoaning the cost of international tuition at the American schools. Most of the other analysts had spoken at some point about their families, whether their families were abroad, whether they had children or wanted children, whether they were partnered or wanted to be. Director Blake simply never said anything and ignored the topic when it came up. Once, feeling particularly daring, Aldon directly asked about her family, figuring that it could always be chalked up to office small talk.

“Do you have a family, Director Blake? Children?” he asked, offhand, pouring himself a glass of water from the corner kitchen.

“No, no family,” she replied lightly, not looking at him as she reached for the watery coffee. “No children, either, I never wanted any.”

The last part was a lie, but it was said too fast for Aldon to identify whether the lie was in whether she didn’t have children, or whether she had never wanted any, or both. Either would have set it off. He didn’t dare ask again, and instead found himself quietly researching the theory behind the Paternity Potion.

A wizarding child’s magical signature was a combination of both parents’ magical signatures. He understood the concept when it came to two wizarding parents easily enough, though apparently the potion was also effective for halfbloods of a full Muggle and a witch or wizard, because the Muggle contributed something _equivalent_ , if not a magical signature. He wasn’t so concerned about that part of it – he simply wanted to know whether the Paternity Potion would work to identify either parent, or just paternity. There was no such thing as a Maternity Potion, but then, he figured that usually one knew who the mother was.

The potions recipe was not a secret, and it was the work of an hour to copy it from the Potions Guild records. At home, in his parlour, he set his ceiling to rain and looked over the list of ingredients. Mainly vegetation, thankfully – twenty-one detentions chopping dead things for Professor Snape later, Aldon still hadn’t gotten over touching things like salamander skin or frogs’ legs or newt eyes. But the theory was that the potion would analyze the child’s magical signature and, once something was added from one of the putative parents, would confirm or deny whether the person was a parent of the child. He didn’t see any reason why it wouldn’t work to identify either parent and, almost unthinkably, he began planning. He already had half of the ingredients already in his kit – it wasn’t a difficult potion, looking to be about OWL-level, and it would only take a few hours to brew. The hair from the putative parent was the difficult part, and he transfigured the recipe into a black quill, setting it inside his desk.

Did he really need to know? There was suspicion, and there was knowledge. He _knew_ that he was not the biological child of both of his parents. He _suspected_ that he was a bastard child of his father. Now, he _suspected_ he was the bastard child of his father and of Director Blake. But the thing about suspicion was that it was _only_ suspicion. He could be wrong. With suspicion, he could remind himself that he didn’t know, he could go on acting normally, attributing Director Blake’s occasional thoughtful looks to something else entirely (and, he reminded himself, those looks _could_ very well be for something else entirely). Knowledge was not something he could take back. When he _knew_ , he couldn’t go back to _not knowing_ , and his acting normally would become a lie.

The decision was almost made for him when he, as the last person in the office the day before the Quidditch World Cup, passed Director Blake’s unguarded, unwarded, desk, and spotted her brush left on top. She normally arrived at the office, looking somewhat sleepy, with her hair down, and put it up sometime in the mid-morning. He hesitated, one second, two, before he gave into the temptation and pulled out a single long, dark, hair. Master Phillips’ desk yielded a spare vial, which he unceremoniously swiped for his prize.  Phillips wouldn’t notice – he ordered a new shipment of vials every two months anyway, it was a point of frequent arguments with Director Blake because he insisted he _needed_ them and she contended that he could reuse his old ones. Either way, he always ended up getting new ones.

From there, it was the work of an hour to stop by Diagon Alley on the way home and pick up the remainder of the ingredients. With the Quidditch World Cup happening this weekend, he fully expected to have a weekend alone. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to see the World Cup, or even that he hadn’t managed to get tickets; rather, his father had procured excellent seats in one of the upper balconies for their whole family from one of his connections several months ago. Unfortunately, last night, Father had regretfully asked him and Mother if they would consider _not_ attending, he had business clients from Estonia with him and it was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. Aldon couldn’t say that he had been _happy_ giving his seat up, but he did, because it was expected, because he was the Rosier Heir, because he was the perfect son. Mother, who had never been a fan of Quidditch in the first place, promptly arranged for a weekend of shopping in France with her friends, leaving Aldon alone.

Perhaps his annoyance over the Quidditch World Cup was what drove him to act so recklessly, to set in stone what had heretofore been conjecture. He didn’t need a whole weekend, only a few hours, in the ancient, almost never-touched Rosier potions lab, to brew the potion and find out.

The morning of the Quidditch match, he wished his parents luck on their respective endeavours, reassured them that he was seventeen years old and perfectly fine on his own, grabbed his potions kit, and disappeared into the ancient Rosier Potions lab. It was dark, inside, and he made a face as he realized that it was also quite dusty. The house-elves apparently didn’t clean the lab very often, which he understood as no one in their family used it. He looked around, then cast Evanesco spells over a small section of one of the benches and set his cauldron down. He didn’t need to clean the labs fully – no doubt the house-elves would get to it before anyone came down to see what he had done.

He treated his cauldron with rapeseed oil, as it called for, and began methodically slicing his ingredients, taking his time. As much as he didn’t like Potions, he had never outright failed any potions, though his practical work rarely merited anything beyond Acceptable. The sole reason he managed Exceeds Expectations for the whole course was his impeccable theory work, so he knew his weaknesses perfectly well from Professor Snape’s running commentary. He was slow. He didn’t chop his ingredients cleanly enough. He didn’t like touching half of the ingredients because they were gross, and he hated blood. If he took his time, chopping all of the ingredients beforehand wearing gloves, he tended to do better. He flinched too much when he touched things that came from dead creatures. Twenty-one detentions later, he still flinched. Aldon didn’t plan on being a potioneer anyway, so what did it matter if he was slow and his knife skills were awful? It would take near twice as long for Aldon to make the potion, but he had more than enough time.

Once appropriately sliced, he lay out the ingredients in the order he needed to use them, checking with his copy of the recipe, before he lit the fire. He waited for the cauldron to heat evenly across the bottom before he began adding the ingredients to form the base. When the base started simmering away, Aldon plucked a hair off the top of his head and dropped it in. Like all potions that called for a person’s essence, any other thing from a person could be used. Blood, nails, skin, teeth … but hair was the usual accepted medium. His hair needed to brew within the potion, from almost the beginning, because the other ingredients would be used to deconstruct his magical signature and analyse it. The potion fizzed and bubbled, and, at least in terms of texture and activity, looked the way it should. There was no set colour for a Paternity Potion – since it took a person’s magical signature in as a base ingredient, its colour reflected the person, not any of the other ingredients. In his case, it was a deep, almost royal, blue. He connected his core to his cauldron, checking it over magically (always the easiest for him), and it didn’t seem wrong.

He shrugged, and added the other ingredients, one by one. The Potion acted as the text described – the colours began shifting, swirling into separate shades of blue, then slowly bleaching out. By the time the last ingredient was added, save Director Blake’s hair, and the potion felt magically satisfied to his senses, it was a solid light grey, matching the description in his recipe. It looked right, felt right, and he drew a beaker of it and set it on the bench in front of him. He _Evanesco-_ ed the rest – he would only need one beaker to give him truth.

Aldon sat, staring at the beaker for a minute. It was the last minute he would enjoy of _suspicion_ , a last minute to draw in a deep breath and decide if he wanted to break that barrier, to _know_.

To hell with it. He uncorked the vial with Director Blake’s hair and dropped it in. It fizzled and popped, then turned a vibrant green.

Confirmation in a bottle. Aldon sat, and stared at the bottle until it stopped fizzing, until it turned flat, but it stayed a vibrant, vibrant green. 

XXX

Returning to work the morning after the Quidditch World Cup, Aldon lied. He was not a stranger to lying, and all his gift did was make lying a little uncomfortable. He lied, because he wasn’t entirely sure what else to do. Aldon simply didn’t know how he had come about. Originally, he guessed that his (supposed) parents had had difficulty conceiving, common in purebloods, and had turned to more unsavory means. He had always assumed that this meant coercion of a mistress, paying off a poor Muggleborn surrogate, or force.

But Director Blake was professionally successful. As little attention as was paid to her, as little recognition as she publicly received, he couldn’t deny that she held sway with the upper management of the Rosier Investment Trust. She was the sole female, Muggleborn, Director at the Trust and, unlike the other Divisions, where his father and the upper management were heavily involved in day to day operations, there was a line drawn in the doorway to New Developments and the upper management did not cross it. She was also still at the Trust, even when, with her skills, Aldon was sure that other companies had given her excellent offers to move.

It didn’t make sense. If she had been coerced, forced, bribed in any way, he would have thought she would have left, especially if she had opportunities elsewhere. And why would Father have permitted her to stay, when it would always risk his secret? It was unlike him. Aldon didn’t understand. Unwilling to step into the middle of a mess he didn’t fully understand, without any understanding of what any of it would mean for him, Aldon acted _normally_ , and he lied. And if he spent a little longer than necessary, occasionally, studying his biological mother, well, that couldn’t be helped.

He was, in retrospect, glad not to have gone to the Quidditch World Cup. He had seen the Daily Prophet’s news report, afterwards. Most of his co-workers had gone to the game, and while all of them had survived, being in the lower seats and fortunate enough not to be struck by falling debris (and, in Aman’s case, deflecting it from her small section of the stands), the atmosphere in the office was tense.

“We’ll have to see how it goes,” Aman had said over lunch in the kitchen, a day later. She was a British Muggleborn, and while she had studied abroad in America, she had returned home afterwards because of her close-knit Muggle family. “The laws are already difficult; if things become much worse, we will need to consider moving abroad, there is no question about it. We have savings and can use it for a new start in America.”

“If that’s what you need to do, Aman, I can provide a strong recommendation for you for wherever you’d like to go,” Director Blake had replied. “It’s not much, but it might help. That goes for anyone else who feels the need to leave, as well. God knows that there are few enough of us remaining in Britain, I can’t fault anyone for going.”

“Thank you,” Aman tilted her head. “You’ll be staying, regardless?”

Director Blake half-smiled, a look Aldon had recently recognized as one of his own expressions, and nodded. “I have other reasons for staying.”

By the end of the summer, as tense as most of his co-workers were, they had all adopted a wait-and-see approach. A few were firmly committed to staying, and more than a few were making emergency flight plans, but no one had left. He focused his last few weeks on finishing his project, the Bubble-Head Ring for Underwater Exploration, which unsurprisingly turned out to be a dud. It wasn’t so much that the _idea_ wasn’t a good one – a ring that extended the use of the Bubble-Head Charm, making it easier to maintain over long periods of time, was a decent idea. The issue was that unless they made the bubble larger, there simply wouldn’t be enough air inside the bubble to warrant the extension of time, because the person inside would simply pass out from oxygen deprivation first. There were other issues, too, for underwater exploration – it didn’t deal with water pressure, or any other problems, but he had thought those issues could have been ignored, since an extended-use Bubble-Head Charm could have uses elsewhere. It took him a week to draft his ultimate recommendation, and it was with a sense of satisfaction that he received his recommendation back from Director Blake on his last day, with a signature and the word “Agreed” in red ink scrawled across it. His rejection letter, signed with his own signature, _Aldon Rosier, Project Design Analyst_ , went out the same day.

XXX

It was his seventh year, his final year at Hogwarts, and Aldon was enjoying being at the far end of the table. It was the furthest away from the high table where the teachers sat, and even though he knew the novelty would fade within a few weeks, things looked good. Ed was beside him, looking well-tanned for a summer spent outdoors, and while neither of the Slytherin prefects had made Head Boy or Head Girl, it didn’t look like there were any hard feelings. Scanning the table, he spotted Harriett (recognizable by the telltale buzz in his core whenever he saw her), looking nearly two inches taller than she was before, sitting in the cluster of new fourth-years. Draco, too, looked like he had grown nearly an inch, and Pansy’s hair now fell nearly to her waist. The feast was delicious, and even if he never lacked for food at home, it would be his last Welcome Feast, and he enjoyed it.

“To our new students, welcome; to our returning students, welcome home.”

Most of the dessert plates disappeared from the table, except for a lone few whose patrons were still picking at them, signalling the end of the Feast. Aldon looked up at the elderly Headmaster, standing at the high table, easily spotted by eye-smarting shade of fuchsia he was sporting. It was an abhorrent colour, but Aldon, feeling unusually kind, figured that one made allowances, dress-wise, for genius.

“We seem to be making these announcements every year, but I am pleased to welcome, as our Defense Against the Dark Arts professor, Alastor Moody, retired Auror. Auror Moody obtained a Mastery in Dueling shortly after leaving Hogwarts and then joined the Department of Magical Law Enforcement as a junior Auror. Over his three-decade-long career in the Department, of which he spent the last half in the violent crime division, he became most known for his arrest of Allan Yorke, the self-professed Rogue and King of Thieves. Since his retirement, he has become known for his mentorship of many junior Aurors, particularly for those who were homeschooled, and for his Dueling training school. I am confident that Professor Moody will make an excellent addition to our teaching staff.”

Aldon raised an eyebrow, because Moody was also known for being exceptionally paranoid and for having willingly plucked out one of his eyes to replace with a magical one, becoming broadly known as “Mad-Eye” Moody. Despite his blood-status as a half-blood, he was somewhat begrudgingly known as one of the best Master Duellers in Britain. Master Moody, however, famously overcharged purebloods for his lessons, while providing them nearly at cost for the lesser-blooded. In a rare interview for _Dueling Monthly_ , he had explained gruffly that the policy existed because “halfbloods and Muggleborns need it more.” It had caused a firestorm, and while at least one pureblood family had brought a complaint to the Ministry’s Equity Commission, Master Moody had defended his policy and pointed out that blood discrimination was perfectly legal. Therefore, for most of the people at Hogwarts in Duelling, the opportunity to learn from him wouldn’t come again easily. Aldon could feel Ed’s intent interest beside him already.

“I am also pleased to welcome Rubeus Hagrid, whom many of you know already as the Groundskeeper, as our new Care of Magical Creatures professor. Mr. Hagrid has been the primary caretaker for nearly all the creatures in and around Hogwarts over the last decade, and I am confident that there is no one better to teach our students about the care of our own magical creatures.”

There was a wave of mixed reactions through the Hall. Some students, particularly amongst the Gryffindors, began clapping and cheering, whereas others simply murmured with their friends or, in the case of the Slytherins, wore expressions of polite consideration. It was a controversial choice, since as far as Aldon knew, Hagrid had not finished his education at Hogwarts and did not have any advanced education in the study of creatures. However, he could not deny that, since Professor Kettleburn had been missing two and a half limbs at the point of his retirement and Professor Pettigrew had been nearly useless as an instructor, it was probably true that Hagrid had been caring for all of Hogwarts’ creatures for many years.

Aldon poked Ed in the side, shooting him an inquiring look and tilting his head subtly at the large Groundskeeper. Ed didn’t look too concerned. “He’ll be better than Pettigrew,” was the only response.

“And now, I though I know you are all eager to return to your common rooms for the evening to catch up with your friends, but I do have one last final announcement. Unfortunately, I’m afraid to say that this year, the annual inter-house Quidditch competition is cancelled.”

Aldon looked up, surprised, even as he heard Draco’s exclamation from farther down the table, and Adrian and Lucian, sitting beside him with the other sixth-years, were glaring daggers at the head table. Aldon could hear the commotion from around the Hall, as well – it was not only Slytherins upset at the cancellation of Quidditch.

Professor Dumbledore smiled patiently at the crowd, waiting for the hubbub to die down. It did, eventually – most people were intelligent enough to know that there had to be more coming.

“The Quidditch tournament is cancelled because Hogwarts will be hosting an event this year which will be taking up much of our time and energy. I am proud to announce that this year, for the first time in nearly forty years, that Hogwarts will be both hosting, and participating in, the interschool-Triwizard Tournament.”

“ _No way!_ ” Aldon heard from the Ravenclaw table, and he whipped around. He recognized the voice, but he had never seen it sound so excited, or passionate, about anything. Adrian Pucey, sitting beside him, was staring nearly open-mouthed at the fifth-year, whose face had lit up like an overpowered _Lumos_ charm. Smaller circles of students had set their heads together at every table, with varying degrees of eagerness and excitement, but the Ravenclaw group was the loudest, if only because Cho Chang appeared to be having trouble containing her squeals of excitement.

Professor Dumbledore waited again for the whispers to die down, though it took slightly longer this time than previous, smiling patiently. “I see many of you are already familiar with the Tournament,” and his eyes lingered on Chang, “so I hope those of you who are familiar will excuse me while I provide an explanation for everyone else. The Triwizard Tournament is a traditional competition between all twenty-four magical schools worldwide, held every four years. Each school submits a team of three, which each school selects using its own process throughout the first term. In the second term, the teams will be facing each other in the games, first in a round-robin pool tournament, and, if successful in winning their pools, the lucky eight will enter the direct elimination phase for the coveted trophy – and the right to say, for the next four years, that they were the champions.

“The games themselves, between schools, take place on a “battleground” – there are normally a few battlegrounds used in each Tournament, with a variety of terrains including rivers, hills, or forests. Each team, on the battleground, has a keystone to defend, and their goal is to find and destroy the other team’s keystone. The game ends when one team either eliminates the other team, or when they destroy the other team’s keystone. The games have been dangerous in the past, but many rules have been instituted making the games much safer over the last forty years – particularly, spells that might maim or kill another player are prohibited, and players are now permitted to have a support team of other students to assist.” Professor Dumbledore smiled, offhand, a twinkle in his eye. “The regulations, I understand, are now quite thick.”

Aldon looked around the Great Hall. Chang was now whispering excitedly to her friends – no doubt telling them in greater detail about the Tournament. The girl was a veritable fountain of information, when she was curious about something. Or, apparently, when she was passionate about something. A few students beginning to look interested, the Weasley Twins among them. Down the table, he spotted Bulstrode whispering calmly in the centre of the table, with both upper years and lower years leaning in to listen to her. He looked around again – yes, most of the people who were talking in excited whispers were from families with extensive international connections.

“I understand that many of you, who have no doubt grown up hearing about the Tournament, are excited for the traditional visits of the other school teams throughout the second term. I regret to say that, unfortunately, while Hogwarts has been invited to participate once again in the games, the other schools have determined that their students would be less than comfortable staying with us and have made alternate arrangements.”

Aldon snorted in amusement, hiding a laugh. Based on the comments Professor Dumbledore had made, and the students in the Hall who clearly knew of the Tournament, it was obvious what had happened. Hogwarts had stopped participating in the Tournament approximately forty years ago, around the time that Muggleborns had been excluded from the school and the ICW’s economic sanctions had begun. Evidently, the Tournament was one of those sanctions, though the other schools must have continued with it. The other schools did not want their teams boarding with Hogwarts, a school now indelibly associated with pureblood supremacy, either because of the risk to their own Muggleborn students, or to avoid any sign of agreement with pureblood supremacist ideology, which would ultimately lead to economic sanction. He wondered vaguely how Durmstrang, then, was treated, and why Hogwarts was being invited back _now_.

“Nevertheless, the Hogwarts team selection begins tonight.” Professor Dumbledore turned around, summoning a large crate from behind the Head Table. He placed it in front of him on the Head Table, split it open with a crack, and pulled out an ancient, golden, goblet, which was already flaming blue at its mouth. “The initial field of candidates will, as Hogwarts tradition, be selected by an impartial judge – the Goblet of Fire. Once the initial field of a dozen students are selected, the formal selection will take place over two tasks in October. One of the tasks will test teamwork, while the other will test how the potential players do in the face of adversity. Once the team is finalized, of three students and one alternate, the official team will be responsible for selecting their own support team.

“There are no rules on who may enter the Tournament, though I caution you that the Goblet of Fire is unlikely to select you unless you are in your final years of school. To ensure that students who make it to the team will be prepared, the in-house tasks prepared by the Hogwarts staff will be difficult for anyone below NEWT-level to pass. This Goblet will be sitting in the Entrance Hall for the next three days. To enter, you will need to print your name on a piece of parchment, stamped with your magical signature, and throw it into the flames. I caution you all to consider, strongly, whether to put your name in – should you be selected, your magical signature will form a magical contract, and you will be compelled to compete if selected. Once your name and signature are in the Goblet, there is no turning back.

“The initial selection will be announced on Friday. I know that, regardless of who is ultimately selected, that everyone here will be supportive. With that, I do believe that your Prefects and your Heads of Houses will be able to inform of you the usual school rules, and I wish everyone a good night.”

Aldon rose from his seat, with the Slytherins as one, and joined the long line of students heading to the Slytherin common room, listening intently. Lucian and Adrian were in front of him, talking quietly.

“I think I’ll put my name in,” Lucian was saying. “With no Quidditch this year, I have the time, and it could be fun.”

Aldon wasn’t surprised – Lucian was competitive through and through. He turned his attention elsewhere, to Harriett’s group of fourth-years.

Draco wore an expression of pained annoyance. “I can’t believe they cancelled Quidditch for this. A tournament with the American schools? They’re too busy teaching their students to hold the right end of a wand, it won’t even be a contest.”

Harriett’s face was shuttered in polite blankness, but she didn’t reply. Pansy did, instead, shooting their friend a cautioning look.

“There will be other schools, too, Drake, not just the American ones. Beauxbatons, Durmstrang will be there,” Pansy chided. “I think it could be interesting to watch.  What about you, Rigel? Are you going to put your name in?”

Harriett laughed. “As if,” she said, her voice unnaturally low for a fourteen-year-old girl, which rang faintly in his core. She must be using a masking spell of some kind, this year – he didn’t think he had noticed one before. “I’ll watch, but I have no plan on putting myself forward. I’m not a NEWT-student.”

That was true, so Aldon left off eavesdropping on the fourth-years and turned to Ed. “So, old friend?”

Ed was silent for a minute or two, thinking. “It’s NEWT-year, so probably not,” he lied regretfully.

Aldon nodded, half-smiling. It wasn’t a full lie, so Ed wasn’t planning to put his name in, but he was tempted. For himself, Aldon was curious.

He wasn’t so foolish to think that the other schools wouldn’t pose a fight. Unlike most of the other Hogwarts students, he had worked two summers with people who had graduated from other schools. They were no less competent than any other witch or wizard he had met, and some of them had strengths that clearly weren’t taught at Hogwarts. AIM was strong on experimental charms and Healing, Ilvermorny on Alchemy and Transfiguration, Mahoutokoro produced the most daring stunt fliers. He wondered how seriously whoever was picked would take the competition; even if they were smart and took guidance from people like Chang who apparently knew the competition well, it was very hard to let go of ingrained prejudices. Though, with Hogwarts having been out of the competition for forty years, they would at least have the element of surprise on their side, since none of the other schools would know them either.

It promised to be interesting. 

XXX

There was a near perpetual watch over the Goblet of Fire, except for classes. Chang seemed to have staked out a corner of the Ravenclaw table between classes, meals, and curfew. She seemed to be taking down notes on whoever put their names in, and usually had a couple friends with her. As expected, most of the upper-year Gryffindors put their names in, Fred and George Weasley doing so with great fanfare.

He spotted Alex putting his name in at the end of the second day, which led to a few muted cheers from the Ravenclaw table. His friend simply raised an eyebrow at his Housemates, before returning to the end of the seventh-year table. Aldon caught his eye, and Alex shot him a quick, tight, smile. He shouldn’t have been surprised – Alex was also in Duelling and he suspected that Alex wanted to be a Curse-breaker, so he wasn’t averse to danger. He wouldn’t be a bad pick.

But for all the people he saw putting in their names, he knew there were many he didn’t see. Some would have done it late at night, when no one was watching, and some of the upper-years would drop it in during their spare periods when most people would be in classes. Most of the students’ reactions to the Tournament, though, were mixed – Aldon heard a lot of comments like Draco’s, disappointment over the lack of a Quidditch tournament and certainty that the competition would be easy pickings. But he also heard a lot of excitement, mainly from people who had close international ties, like Chang, or even Johnston in Gryffindor, talking animatedly with their friends. They formed clumps of excitement, in the halls, sometimes, talking about past Tournaments. Aldon learned, from their loud conversations, that while the ultimate winner of the tournament changed often, the teams making it through to the direct elimination rounds tended to be consistent. Durmstrang, Ilvermorny, Beauxbatons, the National Magic School of China always made it. The bets were on Ougadou, AIM, Mahoutokoro, Castelbruxo, or Oceania filling out the rest, but this year, Hogwarts was a wild card. Many students, too, who were neither interested overly much in Quidditch or in the Tournament, had simply adopted a wait-and-see approach.

By the time Friday rolled around, a week of classes over, the school mood had settled into an odd sort of muted excitement. The students disappointed about the lack of a formal Quidditch tournament were now resigned to it, or at least started organizing an informal league, and the excited anticipation of those looking forward to the tournament had only increased in fervour. The Slytherins were the least excited of all the tables; even though they were the most likely of the Houses to hide their emotions than students in other Houses, in this case Aldon was confident that they were genuinely less excited. That wasn’t surprising – the Slytherins largely came from the oldest, most pureblooded families, who largely supported the SOW Party. Consequently, they were also the least likely to have extensive international connections.

The other Houses, though, made up for it. There was a buzz of energy coming off the other tables, a sense of growing impatience while students finished eating and began staring in earnest at the high table, where the Goblet had now been moved. It was still lit, but the flames were now a bright, flickering orange. Professor Dumbledore, though, was taking his time, and the entire Hall was finished and murmuring by the time he stood up, and the Hall immediately fell silent.

“I believe it is almost time,” he said, studying the Goblet. “Just another minute, and the first name should be coming out. If your name is called, please make your way to the side room to the left of the Head Table for further instructions.”

As he spoke, the Goblet flamed blue, once, spitting out a piece of parchment. “Katie Bell,” Dumbledore read off. The girl, whom he recognized vaguely from the Gryffindor Quidditch team, jumped up with a whoop and strode down into the side room. The Goblet flamed again. “Tamsin Appleby.”

He knew the girl from Curse-breaking, and nodded at the Hufflepuff as she, much more sedately, walked up the Hall and into the side room.

From Curse-breaking, Cedric Diggory and Alex were also called, as was nearly half the Gryffindor Quidditch team. The Weasley Twins, called one after the other, received the loudest round of cheers, and Aldon was hardly surprised that almost half the dozen names were called were Gryffindors, with a smattering of Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs. Actually …

The names being called were among the more powerful students – in fact, the names being read off were placed in order of increasing power. The Weasley Twins were called one after the other, and they both known to be powerful and of nearly identical strength, tenth and eleventh. If it were not for those two, Aldon wouldn’t have picked up on it. It wasn’t the _most_ powerful students who were called – probably only the most powerful of the people who entered. All the Goblet did was sort through the names and signature submitted, determine the most powerful students in terms of core strength, and spit them out.

None of the names called were Slytherins. Aldon heard the muttering from further down the table, but he didn’t think much of it. The only one he knew who had entered was Lucian, whom he thought was fairly average in terms of magical power. If Slytherins didn’t put themselves in for it, then they had no business being upset that they weren’t being called.

“And the final candidate will be,” Professor Dumbledore nimbly caught the last parchment to come flying out of the flames. He paused a second before reading, but smiled pleasantly as he did so. “Arcturus Rigel Black.”

There was silence for a moment, and the clapping started further down the table. Aldon looked down the table, seeing Pansy with a very determined look on her face, signalling Draco into joining her in the applause with a stern glare, while Harriett sat between them, simply looking stunned.

“I didn’t put myself in,” she said blankly, and it was true.

“Mr. Black? If you would kindly go to the side room?” Professor Dumbledore’s expression was politely distant.

Almost gingerly, Harriett swung her legs over the bench, wiping the surprised expression that had flashed across her face, and stood. She stared up at the high table, and no doubt her eyes were going to Professor Snape, whose normally mocking expression had shut down totally. She took a deep breath and walked, stride slow but deliberate, into the side room.

The door shut, a cold slam breaking through the applause, behind her. 

XXX

“I didn’t put myself in,” Harriett repeated, over and over again, in the Slytherin Common Room. She said it to her closest friends, to Draco, who was distinctly upset and annoyed that she was in the contest at all, and to Pansy, who smiled pleasantly and ignored her in favor of organizing the Rigel Black Support Committee. She said it to her other fourth-year friends, whose reactions varied from impressed, in the case of Nott and Bulstrode, and nonplussed, in the case of Zabini. She said it to he and Ed when they went to congratulate her on being selected at all, and she said it to Adrian and Lucian, too, who were frankly far too excited to have at least _one_ Slytherin in the running. Then, she said it again (and again and again) to Draco, who was very elegantly moping.

“I didn’t put myself in,” Harriett repeated, in the corridors. She said it when the Weasley Twins jumped her, only a day later, jumping and shouting about how they would make the best team and they were simply so _excited._ She said it to Ron Weasley and Neville Longbottom, her Gryffindor year-mates, when they stopped her to congratulate her. She said it again to various underclassmen, this time in a tone of utter disbelief, because some of them were beginning to follow her around in the halls, waiting for a drop of wisdom from her – as the youngest candidate, she drew a certain amount of support even outside Slytherin.

“I didn’t even put myself in!” Harriett said – shouted, really – in the Great Hall when the fans of other candidates made her morning porridge explode. A low-key prank war on the various candidates had begun, fueled by House rivalry and the Weasley Twins. Even if it wasn’t _serious_ , and the Rigel Black Support Committee gave as good as they got, and it was nothing to the infamous prank war several years ago, Harriett was decidedly _not_ in the mood for dealing with it. It was, perhaps fortunately, the only time any of the other Houses tried to prank her.

It didn’t seem like anyone believed her – or if they did, they didn’t mention it. It made no difference; according to Dumbledore, once their names were in with their magical signatures, they were compelled to compete. He would have liked to talk to her about it, but with the attention from their more excited classmates, it seemed that she was nowhere to be found. She left the dorms early in the morning, far earlier than any of the other students, and came back long after most had gone to bed, dragging herself in an exhausted fugue straight to the fourth-year dorms. She started skipping meals in the Great Hall, and he had no idea how she was getting to and from her classes. He guessed she was spending a lot of time in her locked Potions lab, but otherwise, he didn’t have the chance to talk with her.

The first Saturday in October, being the date of the first task, was there before they knew it. Aldon, along with the rest of Slytherin House, trailed out into the Quidditch stands and stood, his dark green scarf pinned with one of Pansy’s custom-made “RB” pins that she had their entire House wearing. A few of the other Houses had tried to copy them, with limited success – the second most popular group seemed to be red “W”s, supporting the Weasley Twins, though Gryffindor support was otherwise split between their five candidates in the running.  

The twelve candidates were already on the pitch, along with four large boxes. Curious, he pushed his way to the front of the stands and drew a quick runic screen – runes for clear sight, for accuracy, for knowledge. The boxes blazed with magic, six or seven curses that he could count from this distance. Curse-boxes, bigger than the ones they worked on in Curse-breaking, and a quick skim of the candidates showed that his classmates certainly knew what they were. The three of them, on the field, were standing in a group, looking far more confident than the rest. He spotted Harriett, standing with the Weasleys, talking quietly, while the rest were staring at the boxes with varying degrees of nervousness or anticipation. Professor Newman was on the field too, looking unusually smug, along with Professor Dumbledore, and … was that Lord Riddle?

It was, along with the Minister for Magic, Bartimaeus Crouch, the Head of the Department of International Magical Cooperation, and Ludo Bagman, the Head of the Department of Magical Games and Sports. They must be the team selection committee, he realized; as the first international competition Hogwarts was going to in the last forty years, they had a vested interest in ensuring the best possible team was sent.

“We should sit down, Aldon,” Ed said from behind him. “You’re blocking the view of the first and second-years.”

Aldon dismissed his spell with three slashes of his wand, the runic version of a _Finite Incantatem_. “They have curse boxes,” he said lightly, joining his friend in the upper stands. “Pretty dull to watch, I think.”

“You said that Newman puts curses on them? _Confringo,_ Dark hexes, bombardment hexes, exploding charms…”

Aldon shrugged, noncommittal. “Sometimes Light hexes, too. He can’t favour Light or Dark too much, or we wouldn’t learn to recognize the different types of hexes. But, the actual curse-breaking itself will be dull – we’ll only be watching the candidates stand around casting every revealing charm known to wizardkind, then slowly and methodically taking apart spells. One at a time. For hours.”

“You can drop the bored act, Aldon,” Ed replied, leaning back. “I know you’re intrigued, underneath all your layers.”

Aldon tilted his head, conceding the point. Ed knew him far too well. “Fine. Alex, Diggory and Appleby will do well – I expect they’ll finish the highest ranked. But the rest … I wonder how fast the Weasley Twins will trip a curse and their box explodes. Or drains their magic. Or drives them insane.”

“Students,” Professor Dumbledore interrupted, his voice carrying over the stands with the strength of a _Sonorus_ charm. “The first task will be a teamwork exercise. If I could have the candidates put themselves in teams of three…”

The existing groups clung closer together – Harriett with the Weasley Twins, the remaining Gryffindors, gravitating towards each other as if they were magnetically attracted. If it weren’t for the fact that exactly three of the candidates were in curse-breaking together and clearly saw that their best chances of advancement were by sticking together, Aldon was sure that the Hufflepuffs and Ravenclaws would have formed House teams as well.

“Oh no, now, this won’t do,” Professor Dumbledore tsked, his tone amused. “That wouldn’t be a test of your teamwork skills at all. Mr. Fred Weasley, why don’t you work with Ms. Appleby and Ms. Hendry? Mr. Black, you with Mr. Diggory and Ms. Bell? And Mr. George Weasley, you with Mr. Willoughby and Ms. Johnston, leaving the final group of Ms. Kelly, Mr. McLaggen, and Ms. Cameron?”

Aldon didn’t need to hear the candidates to know that they were less than pleased with the new groupings; the slight pause before they moved into their new groups said more than enough. Aldon examined the new teams closely – Appleby was a decent curse-breaker and combined with Weasley’s creativity, it wasn’t a bad grouping. He didn’t know anything about Hendry. Harriett, with Diggory and Bell would be a strong team. Harriett was powerful and having the power to stabilize a box in the middle of curse-breaking was important, but she wouldn’t know that without Diggory. Also, all three of them were mild-mannered enough, and they would probably cooperate quicker than some of the others. Alex’s team, too, was strong, though Aldon had to admit he was biased. He knew Alex best out of the seventh-year curse-breaking class, and he knew Alex could and would spot the curses and know how to take them apart, and he hoped Alex’s teammates would sit back and let him handle it. The final team, well, he didn’t know. He didn’t know anything at all about Kelly or Cameron, and the little he knew of McLaggen wasn’t flattering. Lady McLaggen talked at parties, and while she was effusive with praise of her son, Aldon thought it was all hot air.

“Now, as those of you who are already in our curse-breaking classes no doubt already know, the task is simple: disable the curses on your box and open it. You have a time-limit of two hours – you may begin.” Professor Dumbledore, with a ridiculous curlicue spin of his wand, cast a _Tempus_ charm over the pitch. The clock was huge, reading only _2:00:00,_ before it began counting down.

“Oh, look, they’re already in trouble,” Aldon said, not even a full minute later, gesturing to the team McLaggen was on, which had fallen into a shouting match. McLaggen had tried to take charge immediately, which wasn’t necessarily the _wrong_ thing to do, but whatever he had said had clearly angered the other two. Ten minutes later, it looked like the two girls had pulled it together. Cameron put McLaggen in an Incarcerous spell, Silencing him to boot, and the two girls belatedly began casting revealing spells at their box. They weren’t in Curse-breaking, as far as Aldon knew, so he figured they were imitating the other teams.

The other three teams were cooperating, more or less, but it was frustrating not to see the actual spell work. Half the teams were casting spells non-verbally to avoid giving the other teams clues on what to do. He drew his wand out again, casting another runic screen, this time making it wide enough to cover Ed’s field of vision as well. Alex had managed to stop his team, two Gryffindors, from disabling every spell the minute they identified it. Surprisingly, Weasley had been the voice of reason between Alex and Johnston; having experimented making his own prank products, Aldon suspected he and his brother had been subject to unstable spells blowing up on him a time or two before. It would certainly explain why both of the Weasley teams were doing better than he had expected – he had thought they would be far more rash.

“What’s that spell?” Ed asked, pointing towards something that Harriett’s team was doing – they had formed a triangle around their box, and Harriett was, visible through the screen, pouring magic into it. Diggory was snapping orders, clearly having taken charge of that group as the only one in Curse-breaking.

“Anchoring it,” Aldon said bluntly, watching carefully. Diggory must have given her instructions. He and Alex rarely used that technique in curse-breaking, because neither of them really had the magic to spare. Aldon was only slightly above average, though he casted at a somewhat higher level because he worked so often with raw power and runes, but he would be never fast with his wand work. Alex had more power than him, but even he didn’t have the kind of power needed to anchor curse-breaking, which allowed curse-breakers to take greater risks. He curled his lip upwards in distaste, even if he couldn’t deny the effectiveness of the strategy. “Inelegant, but it’s working – they’re through most of the concealment spells already. Diggory is taking charge of the actual curse identification, while he and Bell throw spells to provoke it, and Rigel is anchoring all of their experimentation spells so the box doesn’t explode on them.”

A sudden peal of thunder crashed through the Quidditch pitch, and Aldon flinched as half of the stands gasped. He looked over to the far right – it was the McLaggen team. Both the girls were looking utterly disgusted, and there was a smoking hole where their box once stood. McLaggen was lying, unconscious, several feet away from both them and the hole. “What happened?”

Adrian turned around from the seat he sat in, smirking. “McLaggen got out of the Incarcerous and went after the box himself. The girls assumed he was out, so they weren’t paying attention to him. He triggered some sort of lightning spell. It threw him clear.”

“Idiot,” Aldon snorted, looking over to the judges. Professor Flitwick had, in the interim, charmed words to appear behind the Judges’ table: _Cormac McLaggen, 1:21:69, DNF_. _Catherine Kelly, 1:21:69, DNF. Quinn Cameron, 1:21:69, DNF_.

Madam Pomfrey was on the field, conjuring a stretcher for McLaggen, and both girls were now sitting on the grass, expressions of mixed disappointment and disgust on their faces. It was understandable – with a poor score now, both would have difficulty distinguishing themselves from the rest of the candidates. Aldon glanced over at the Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff stands – a few students were muttering in discontent, but most of the rest were focused on their other candidates still in the running.

Diggory’s team, with Harriett and Bell, were still in the lead. Harriett was pouring a nearly frightening amount of power into stabilizing their box, which meant that the missteps they made hadn’t blown up in their faces. By Aldon’s calculations, they should have tripped the Caterwauling charm, but hadn’t because it she had caught it and held it while Bell disabled it. “Oh, that’s not good,” he muttered, as they tripped a Light hex.

“What isn’t?” Ed asked.

“Rigel’s team activated a Light hex on their box.” Aldon replied absently. He itched to be closer, to see what the Light hex actually did, while Harriett staggered slightly with the amount of magic she now had to pour in to stabilize the hex so it didn’t actually go off. “None of them are Dark-aligned, though, so they’re going to struggle to disable it. Diggory is Light, Bell’s casting looks like she’s true Neutral. Rigel is Neutral too… oh, that’s interesting.”

“What is?”

“Diggory has switched to anchoring it temporarily while Rigel goes after the hex. He doesn’t know what the spell is, but I think Diggory is yelling instructions at him. Oh…” Aldon fell silent. Harriett was successfully performing the counter-curse on Diggory’s instructions, even though it was a Dark counter-curse. Her magic was clumsy, and it fumbled a few times before successfully forming, but she forced it to imitate the Dark, aggressive edge with sheer will.

“What?” Ed nudged him in the side. Right, Ed didn’t know the magical theory well enough to know what was happening just by seeing it – all he saw was coloured magic flying around. But at the same time, Harriett’s magic was clearly wild, now that Aldon knew what he was looking at. She shouldn’t have been able to _mimic_ a Dark affinity well enough to force through the counter-curse, but she did it. There were ways, of course, for Dark wizards to disable Dark curses, and Light wizards to disable Light ones, but they normally involved funnelling magic through a counter-ward that would screen the magic into the other affinity, not sheer willpower.

“Nothing,” Aldon lied, instead. He had told Ed enough about wild magic that he didn’t want to take the risk. “Rigel did the counter-curse, he’s taken back anchoring. They’re still in the lead.”

“How is your friend, Willoughby, doing?” Ed gestured, a small movement. Aldon looked over; Alex’s team was steadily moving forward, his experience making up for the fact that they didn’t have someone powerful enough to act as an anchor. Well, actually, Aldon thought that Weasley was powerful enough to anchor, but for whatever reason, their team seemed to have decided against it. That was probably partially his fault, Aldon reflected – he and Alex never used it, so under pressure, Alex didn’t think of it.

“They’re doing well,” Aldon commented after a pause. “They make a good team. They caught up while Rigel was struggling with the Light hex, they’re through both the concealment and alarm charms now and they’re into the actual curses. They’re picking up some time because they’re better balanced than Rigel’s team – Alex is Light, Johnston is Dark, surprisingly, and Weasley is Neutral. And since none of them are anchoring it, they’re trading off disabling the curses they’re best suited to disabling faster than Rigel’s team can manage. It’s close.”

Ed made a non-committal noise and turned back to watching the teams play. Aldon looked up – the clock read _0:52:23_. The last team, Appleby, Weasley and Hendry, hadn’t made nearly as much progress, but they were still doggedly in the running. They had finally undone the concealment charms and were working through the alarms. Aldon thought he spotted some runic wards to the back and he winced – they missed them. Appleby hadn’t taken Ancient Runes, which was a good reason for missing it, but she should have been looking. It was a major failing on her part, and neither Weasley nor Hendry had picked up on it either. “Keep an eye on the other Weasley team, Edmund – they missed a runic ward. It’s probably hiding something nasty.”

Ed nodded, turning to the other team, just as they prepared to crack through their first set of actual curses. If it was triggered to blow, this was a good time, when they started disabling curses. But then Weasley – Fred – linked into the box, and began anchoring it, and Aldon leaned forward in interest. He should have thought of it, Appleby worked with Diggory all the time, the Hufflepuffs must have anchored in curse-breaking routinely. But they were smarter about it than Harriett’s team was, because by only anchoring at the most dangerous parts of the curse-breaking process, they conserved power. It wouldn’t matter, that much, because from the amount of power Harriett was pouring without a thought into their box, she had more than enough power to anchor for hours.

Whatever the runic ward was hiding went off – it was a Dark curse, and from their reactions he reasoned it had to be a mental attack of some kind, because all three staggered. Fred managed to hold it, if only barely, and Aldon could see that Appleby had hooked herself in. She wasn’t a strong witch, though, and Aldon could tell it wasn’t sustainable.

“Aldon… how much magic is that?” Ed was staring, somewhat bemused, at the sheer amount of magic now pouring into stabilizing the box. 

“More than they can lose,” Aldon shook his head, but he couldn’t keep his eyes off the spectacle. “Appleby shouldn’t have hooked herself into it. She’s not strong enough to help much, and none of the three are Dark-aligned; if they were, it wouldn’t take as much to stabilize. She’s the best curse-breaker they have, her and Weasley – Hendry is smart, but they didn’t uncover the curse itself, so she has no idea what the curse is or what to do. She should have had Hendry anchor into it then disabled the curse as fast as she could, but …”

The curse went off, or rather, both Weasley and Appleby were drained and couldn’t hold it off any longer, and all three fell to the ground, unconscious. The second team was out. Madam Pomfrey was again out on the field, conjuring stretchers, while the words went up behind Professor Flitwick. _Fred Weasley, 0:45:11, DNF. Tamsin Appleby, 0:45:11, DNF. Allison Hendry, 0:45:11, DNF_.

There were only two teams left, now, Harriett’s team and Alex’s team, and Aldon couldn’t help but silently cheer for both. From what he could see, Diggory had gotten all the curses, and they were only running last minute checks before casting _Cistem Aperio_. Still, he was certainly taking his time with the final check, and Alex’s team was on the last curse before they could do the same. No doubt Alex saw that it was a race to the finish, and he was working faster than Aldon had ever seen him work, spells spilling out of his wand like water. Johnston was shaking her head, shouting at him to get it done, and Weasley was pushing him on too—

No final check. Alex unravelled the last curse and, without wasting time, threw out a stern _Cistem Aperio,_ and Aldon held his breath as Diggory, realizing that Alex was taking a calculated risk, threw the last of his caution to the winds and shouted the same spell at his box.

_Alexander Willoughby, 0:11:16, 1 st. Angelina Johnston, 0:11:16, 1st. George Weasley, 0:11:16, 1st._

_Cedric Diggory, 0:11:14, 2 nd. Arcturus Rigel Black, 0:11:14, 2nd. Katie Bell, 0:11:14, 2nd._

Both Johnston and Weasley jumped Alex, screaming in excitement, who staggered under their combined weight and enthusiasm. Aldon smirked – he didn’t need to see Alex’s face to know that he was discombobulated by the show of physical affection. He looked over at Diggory’s team; unsurprisingly, Harriett’s face was blank. Well, she hadn’t put herself into the competition at all and likely didn’t even want to compete, knowing her as he did, so the fact that her team had come in second was probably not a disappointment for her. She had probably only cooperated because it was the easiest thing to do, and because even if she didn’t want to do well, neither did she want to sabotage her team members. His eyes gravitated over to Diggory and Bell; Bell was muttering something to Diggory, while he was shaking his head, a look of consternation on his face. Aldon could guess what that was about, since Alex had effectively snatched the first-place position out from under them.

“Yes, yes, congratulations to both of our finishing teams,” Professor Dumbledore stood, while the other judges conferred behind him. Not that there was much, really, to confer yet, because there was a whole second task, one focusing on _performance in the face of adversity_ , or something like that. The teamwork task was just a preliminary ranking. “As your reward, if you would so kindly open your boxes the rest of the way… There should be a catch just behind the lock for you to open and show your admiring crowds.”

The teams approached their boxes, slightly wary. Weasley, with the unspoken consent of his teammates, reached into the box and found the catch; Diggory did the same for his team. The boxes began unfolding slowly, and they both stepped backwards slowly, cautiously.

The tips of the wing appeared first, then the snout, then the long, long neck. Smoke furled out of their nostrils – not real smoke, clearly a charm for effect, but their eyes glowed eerily, black eyes on one, golden eyes on the other. Dragons – statues of them, large enough to be seen by a crowd, certainly only a fraction of the size of the real thing. One, black and lizard-like, crouched on the ground, the thorny club of bronze spikes on its tail raised above its head. The other, dark green, with glittering, sharp, golden horns at least three feet long, stared up into the sky.

“A Hungarian Horntail, and a Romanian Longhorn,” Ed muttered. “I wonder what the other two boxes had.”

“As you can see, your reward for having completed the task is seeing _two_ of the creatures you’ll be facing at the end of the month,” Professor Dumbledore beamed. “Candidates, you have until Halloween to prepare.”

“What, exactly, are we _doing_ with dragons?” Weasley shouted. He was grinning, and his tone was playful, but Aldon thought there was a nervous edge to it.

Professor Dumbledore chuckled. “Now that would be telling, wouldn’t it?” 

XXX

Dragons. 

The second qualifying task was goddamn bloody _dragons_.

Harriett didn’t look too worried, that night in the common room. Was it because, compared to dealing with the Sleeping Sickness as a first-year, dragons just weren’t that frightening? Was it that, compared to the basilisk in second year, she was confident she could face down a dragon? Or was it defending herself against Professor Pettigrew that made her confident? Or, even, was that, compared to the daily stresses of being a blood identity thief and masquerading as a boy to maintain her cover, dragons were just another obstacle to be overcome? Or was it just that she was _always_ cool and she _never_ worried?

She was so _infuriating._ Did she not remember that the basilisk had nearly killed her? And even if Aldon didn’t know what had happened with Professor Pettigrew, one did not have to stay in the hospital week for three weeks and one was not excused from final exams for _nothing_. He had seen her, for himself, not even a week after – she had lost so much weight, whatever had happened, she had barely survived.

Harriett was even there, at the Rigel Black Victory Party, smiling and nodding politely, if a little stiffly, and it was clear as day that she would prefer to disappear and hide. But as she had said herself, during a meeting long ago, one did not say no to Pansy Parkinson, and therefore, here she was.

He had promised, at the end of last year. He had promised that the next time something happened, he  would be there. He was the only one who knew that Rigel was actually Harriett Potter and, as much trouble as she attracted, as the sole person at Hogwarts who _knew_ , that meant that he had a unique responsibility to her, as all wizards had to witches. He had failed at it, last year, because he was too indecisive to decide how he would act with her, because he was uncomfortable doing what needed to be done, because he didn’t want to treat Harriett as a boy, as she needed. That had to end, and that had to end now.

The Firewhiskey came around to him again – he and Ed had broken it out – and he poured himself a double. Liquid courage would loosen him a little, but not too much, and he felt the heat of the liquor warm his core. It was good, strong, hitting him quickly, and he shifted in his armchair, relaxing. Alcohol always did that for him, always made things easier, even if it made his thinking as clear as mud.

“Rigel,” he called out, as she passed the corner seats where he and Ed were lounging. It was a fight to keep his tongue from tripping over her proper name – but it was a fight he would win. Even if he was a little tipsy. “Congratulations, today.”

She shrugged, nonplussed. “Thank you, but I hardly did anything, it was all Diggory, really. Bell and I just followed his directions.”

“Come, now,” Aldon replied, a half-smile coming across his lips. It was true, but there was still that slight burr of his core, a soft feeling that felt like a much milder version of what he felt every time he saw her, a signal that her voice itself was a lie. He mourned, for a brief instant, her true voice, even as he knew that she would be able to change it back. Her true voice was a mellow alto, musical to hear, and her natural cadence lighter in spirit. Her altered voice, while perfectly normal, held no music.

He pulled himself back to his purpose with a gargantuan effort: normalcy. Yes, normalcy. How did he act with Rigel, before? What would he say? He would tease, always hinting at more, he would play on Harriett’s expectation that he was mocking her because he was bored. “You took out that Light hex fairly handily. Caught at least one Caterwauling Charm and a Bombarda, too, I think.”

“And we all saw how much power you were pouring into the box to stabilize it,” Ed added. Technically, his distractible mind interrupted, that wasn’t true. Aldon only cast the runic screen large enough for the two of them to see it.

“Hardly,” Harriett lied, waving a hand dismissively in modesty. “Anyway, it’s only one task. I’m sure the second task will be much harder.”

“Everyone knows you’re powerful, Rigel,” Ed replied, ignoring her, eyebrow raised. “No point denying it now.”

“And yet, I will,” Harriett smiled, but it was one of her Rigel smiles – it didn’t reach her ugly grey eyes. Aldon fought to keep his mouth from pursing in distaste – he hated those smiles. They weren’t _lies_ , but they cut him to the core all the same.

“What about those dragons?” he cut in hastily. “Do you have a plan?”

“Hard to have a plan when we don’t know what we’re doing,” Harriett shrugged, the perfect picture of unconcern. “I’m sure I’ll think of something, and even if I don’t, Professor Dumbledore would never let any of us be harmed.”

That was true, but Harriett was being _far_ too blasé about it. He knew that she hadn’t put her name in, and therefore she would likely be nothing but relieved if she _wasn’t_ chosen, but still. “Professor Dumbledore isn’t opposed to injury, though,” Aldon pointed out, trying and failing to find a more delicate way to phrase it. Goddamn alcohol. So warm and helpful in some ways, and so utterly useless in others. “Even today – four candidates were taken to the Hospital Wing, unconscious. Unless you’ve changed your mind about Mediwizards?”

Harriett tilted her head in acknowledgement, a slightly sour look passing across her face. “I shall take that into consideration,” she said, her eyes moving towards another group of students waving her over. She sighed, and Aldon half-smiled. As the party’s sole honoree, she had no excuse for not making the rounds. “Have a good evening, Rosier, Rookwood.”

Ed nodded, hiding a smile in his dark eyes. Aldon lifted his hand, giving her a slight wave. He was normal. He spoke to her and managed to treat her as Rigel, instead of as Harriett, as awful as that was. He could do this. “It’s Aldon.”

He kept his ears to the ground, the next month, hinting at to the Rigel Black Support Committee that it would be immensely helpful, for Rigel’s planning purposes, if they could uncover exactly what the candidates would need to do with dragons. Fight them? Ride them? Capture them?

Pansy, as Head of the Rigel Black Support Committee, posted an award for the first one to discover the details of the task – it was only ten galleons, plus public recognition, but it sparked a fervour of searching. Several students reasoned that their best chances of finding out would be when the dragons arrived and, the week before the Halloween, there was a twenty-four-hour watch over the skies and grounds.

The little twins in third-year were the first to find out, dashing into the common room at two in the morning on Halloween, the day of the second task. The common room was far busier than normal – classes were cancelled the next day, so about half of Slytherin House was still up. Aldon was sitting in an armchair by the fire, a book on runic casting on his lap. Ed was beside him, reading a guide to different dragon breeds.

“They only need to get past the dragons,” said one, panting heavily as he pulled his cloak off. It was cold, out – nights were often frosty.

“They have four different breeds, though. The Hungarian Horntail and the Romanian Longhorn, and then a blue one and a green one. Lighter green than the Longhorn, a brighter green,” said the other.

“Swedish Shortsnout and Common Welsh Green,” said the first, smacking his brother on the arm.

Aldon looked around and saw that Bulstrode and Nott were already heading towards the fourth-year dorms. Pansy had already retired for the night, as had Harriett herself, but they would be roused easily enough. Ed stood, taking control of the situation.

“So they have to get past the dragons. And there are four of them, of different breeds. Did you find out anything else?”

“They have to collect a ribbon on the other side of the dragon’s enclosure,” said the first one. Their names, if he remembered correctly, were Cassian and Felix. The trouble was, since they were never apart, Aldon had never figured out which one was Cassian, and which one was Felix.

“They’ll be timed as they do it, too,” said the other. “Faster times are better, but won’t be the full picture, I think. I think there’s a scoring mechanism too, for creativity and so on.”

“Are the candidates going together, or individually?” Ed asked, his voice clear but even. “And against one dragon, or all four?”

“They didn’t say,” the second one replied, shaking his head. “We listened as long as we could, but once the dragons were stunned, there was little we could do.”

“Male dragons? Or female dragons?” Ed demanded.

“Female dragons,” one said.

“Nesting dragons? Did you see any eggs?”

Both shook their heads.

“All right. Anything else you can tell us?”

“No, that’s everything,” said one, while the other shook his head.

“Good job, both of you,” Pansy said, sweeping into the common room, her hair loose but newly brushed and looking as flawless as if she had had a full night of sleep. He looked towards the hallways to the fourth-year dorms – Harriett was stumbling out, looking dishevelled and as if she had been rudely awakened, which he reminded himself that she had been.

She was the complete opposite to Pansy, everything Pansy wasn’t. And wasn’t that wonderful?  Almost despite himself, he felt a little smile cross his lips, and wiped it off sternly. Aldon Rosier did not smile in that way to Rigel Black, though he might to Harriett Potter. Though, he supposed he had smiled, like this, to Rigel Black years ago… did it matter? He wasn’t sure.

Pansy paid the twins, with many compliments as well. The twins exchanged a gleeful smirk between each other, and Aldon would bet that the money would be going straight to the Marauders line of products. He glanced over, again, at Harriett, whose eyes were now sharper as Zabini, who was here the entire time, recounted the information to her. She nodded, now and again, to show that she was listening. Ed walked over to her small circle of friends, and Aldon stood and followed.

“Female dragons,” he said, his voice quiet. “But different breeds. Females aren’t territorial, so there shouldn’t be an issue with them fighting each other, so my guess is that you’ll need to get past all four – the numbers don’t seem to make any sense. Four dragons, and twelve candidates? This is a test of how the candidates perform, individually, under pressure. They need a show. My guess is that there’s an obstacle course of some kind.”

Harriett nodded, once, to show she understood, and turned around. “In that case, I am sure I will need my sleep. Thank you for telling me.”

Her voice was low, a soft rumble of a lie ringing through his magic, just the usual sensation of her voice-alteration spell. Aldon was impressed despite himself – the charm either didn’t wear off, as charms did over time, or she was very careful to recast it periodically. She left, and Draco followed with nary a thought afterwards; Aldon’s hands twitched, an aborted clenching of his fists, but he kept any expression other that cool interest off his face. There was nothing he could do, for all he thought that _Draco Malfoy_ was singularly incapable of understanding or helping Harriett Potter in the least. 

XXX

The next afternoon, it was with a sense of impending doom that Aldon walked out, once again, to the Quidditch pitch, joining Ed at the top of Slytherin House stands. He had, yet again, woven an emerald-green scarf around his neck, held together with the Rigel Black Support pin, and this time added a woolen cloak to his ensemble. It was cold. He was cold.

The pitch had been magically expanded, to three times its usual size. The dragons were already on the field, four of them, sitting underneath the teachers’ stands, which this time had only the judges. They were the same as the first task, not that he had expected any different: the Headmaster, Lord Riddle, the Minister of Magic, Mr. Crouch, Mr. Bagman.

As Ed had predicted, the dragons kept a wary eye on each other, but didn’t seem to be in a mood to attack each other. The Horntail had taken a prime location, in a beam of sunlight, and she glared at the others as if they dared to encroach on her. The Romanian Longhorn, on the other hand, prowled the edges of the pitch, using her long horns to prod the stands occasionally. The Swedish Shortsnout had taken a spot uncomfortably close to the far wall, adorned with ribbons, whereas the Common Welsh Green, by far the smallest of the dragons, was sniffing the air curiously. None of the dragons seemed to care that they were penned in a pitch, surrounded by observers.

“No obstacle course,” he said quietly to Ed.

“I rather think the dragons _are_ the obstacle course,” he replied, his eyes on the pitch. “Males would be worse. I think the Longhorn is hungry.”

Scanning the stands, Aldon saw that there was no surprise on anyone’s face among the students. Of course, every house would have done its own investigation, would have discovered the same things as the clever Slytherin twins. There would be no surprises for any of the candidates this morning. The air was crisp, cheerful, if tense. Aldon pulled his cloak closer around him, but it didn’t seem to help the clammy, shaky feeling he had.

This time, it was Mr. Bagman who took charge. It was surprising, really, Aldon reflected, that he hadn’t done so at the first task, but then, the last task was not an action-based task. It was one of cooperation, of curse-breaking; Mr. Bagman hadn’t the skill. To think of it, he didn’t even remember who had been commentating the match, if anyone – he had ignored them in favour of making his own conclusions and narrating for Ed. Well, it would be nice to have a fully commentated task, he supposed, even if he felt far too distracted, too out of sorts, to pay much attention to it.

“Good afternoon, students,” Bagman’s voice boomed over the pitch. “Are we excited yet?”

Aldon was not excited. Excitement was what one felt on the eve of a Quidditch match, or before an important magical theory lecture. Excitement entailed _anticipation_ , and Aldon was distinctly _not_ excited. Aldon was anxious, worried, nervous, but somehow Bagman’s question was met with a round of cheers.

Ed winced slightly, and Aldon caught his eye, raising an eyebrow. “The dragons are on edge,” he muttered in reply. “Their attentions right now are fixed on each other, and I, for one, would rather that _not_ change.”

“The task, in this case, is simple – the only thing the candidates must do is retrieve a ribbon from the far end.” Bagman laughed, a jolly laugh that came straight from his belly. “But, as you can all see, that might prove difficult. Candidates will both be timed, but completion time is only _one_ part of the selection – at the end, the judges’ panel will determine the team for the Triwizard Tournament based on performance in the first task, the times in this task, and other factors such as creativity, fortitude, and perseverance in the face of adversity.”

“What a load of bull,” Aldon muttered under his breath, eyeing the panel. Harriett hadn’t entered herself, which meant that someone had entered her. He knew that – he had known that before, even if he hadn’t wondered too much about it. He thought it was a prank, or some sort of misguided hero-worship. All the Cup required was a name, and a magical signature, and both of those were easy enough to obtain. Magical signatures were trapped in the hair, nails, blood… in this case, Aldon thought hair was the easiest, even if Harriett was absurdly paranoid. But the criteria to make the team being as vague as they were, and the judges that were on the panel…

It hit him in a moment of blinding clarity, the roar of the crowd suddenly fading into the distance in his shock as he caught his breath. Ed glanced over to him, no doubt having heard, and Aldon focused on taking long, slow, deep breaths. He pulled himself together, shaking his head lazily at his friend, letting no sign of the panicked and frenzied thoughts crossing through his head onto his face. It wouldn’t fool him, but now was not the time for him to explain. He cursed himself.

Aldon was an idiot. An absolute fucking _idiot_ not to see it earlier. She hadn’t entered the tournament, and that meant someone had entered her. Someone wanted her on the Hogwarts team. It didn’t really _matter_ how she did in this task – he would bet the Trust that she would be sitting on the Hogwarts team, come day’s end. Lord Riddle was on the judges’ panel, and since when did Lord Riddle _not_ have an agenda?

He scanned the judges anew, his gaze sharp. The Ministry was in Lord Riddle’s pocket, no doubt – if it came to a vote, they would support him. And with only Professor Dumbledore from Hogwarts on the panel, well, Harriett’s fate was effectively sealed. Lord Riddle would need to make a reasonable case, of course, to provide a veneer of rationality to cover his agenda; but Aldon had no doubt that he was more than capable of doing so.

He gritted his teeth silently.

The first six candidates had entered, while he was cursing himself for being twelve different kinds of idiot. They were the six, he saw, that had passed the last test, and they would get an additional five minutes before the remaining six were allowed in. Alex, Harriett, Diggory, Johnston, Bell and George Weasley were looking up, expressions of defiance or resignation on their faces, or in one case, polite blankness. Aldon followed their gaze upwards; they were staring at a great clock, counting down. They would start when it hit zero, he surmised.

“This actually isn’t to their advantage,” Ed murmured beside them. “Had all 12 started at the same time, the dragons would have been distracted and confused by their number. With only six, it will be much easier for them to fix on a target to hunt.”

“What would you do, then?” Aldon asked, equally quiet, their seats an eye of eerie calm in the storm of excitement. The clock hit zero, and a loud, piercing whistle cut the air. The dragons looked up, sensing the threat, and focused on the six candidates that had entered, and chaos cut loose.

Ed shrugged. “Probably what Johnston is doing,” he suggested. The tall Gryffindor was running, staying low to the ground and marking an unpredictable zig-zag throughout the pitch. She was fast, but she had to double back at points to make herself less predictable and to dodge talons that swiped occasionally at her, using her magic sparingly, and exclusively on herself. A movement charm here or there, a shield once or twice, just a light deflection of debris, a spell to support her periodic jumps – she was making her way across the pitch, slowly but surely. There were five other targets, of course, and the dragons did seem confused on who to chase.

Alex had Transfigured himself some cover, a large rock and he was sheltering behind, keeping him out of sight. He was still, and his wand was out, twitching in the characteristic pattern that told Aldon that he was examining the wards in the enclosure. It was slow; examining wards was not Alex’s strength, but Aldon’s. It would take him long minutes to do whatever he was doing, so Aldon looked away.

Diggory, Weasley and Bell had been the unlucky ones to each attract a dragon’s attentions, and they were all too busy blocking, dodging, and the like to make any progress across the large pitch. Weasley was using a series of noise and light spells to distract the Longhorn from eating him, and he was having some success mainly because the Longhorn kept lowering its head to try to stab him with its long horns. Still, he never seemed to stun the dragon enough to get _past_ it, try as he might. Diggory was battling the Hungarian Horntail, but his offensive spells kept being reflected back at him. Bell was having much the same problem with the Welsh Green.

Where was Harriett? He scanned the pitch again, but she was nowhere to be seen. His hands, hiding underneath his cloak, were clenched, his short nails biting into the meat of his palm. The pain, minor as it was, was steadying.

He hated being caught ignorant, but his need to know where she was outweighed his annoyance. “Where’s Rigel?” he asked, his voice nonchalant.

“Look up,” Ed replied, a quick glance from his friend showing that Aldon’s tone hadn’t fooled him in the slightest.

Harriett was on a broom, flying circles over the pitch, watching the dragons and her fellow candidates with something like polite interest. She wasn’t _wholly_ out of the fray, and she did engage with the dragons – she taunted one, then the other, occasionally distracting them from their other targets. The Horntail, once, breathed a great plume of fire and ash into the sky at her, which she dodged by diving towards the pitch, and whipping around the great dragon. Diggory used the distraction to finally, finally dash past the creature, only to be stymied by the Shortsnout.

Aldon could have groaned aloud. She was doing enough – just enough, that if anyone challenged her, she could say that she tried. She tried to get across the pitch faster. For someone who might believe that she had put her name into the Goblet, who might believe that she _chose_ to enter the Tournament, who didn’t know her well, it would probably pass muster. The Slytherins around him, certainly, were enthralled with her stunts.

But Aldon was not fooled, and a small part of him wondered if his classmates were so quick to forget how good _Rigel Black_ was on a broom. She _had_ been on the Quidditch team, two years past, as a Beater – the only girl on the Quidditch team, though no one had known, then. A talent for flying also came strongly through the Potter bloodline. It was obvious to him, if not to most, that Harriett was always in control. She was throwing the task.

“And would you look at that – we have our first success! Angelina Johnston, of Gryffindor, is the first to take a ribbon at four minutes and fifty-four seconds!” Bagman’s voice cut through Aldon’s reverie, and he glanced over to see Johnston’s name projected over the judges’ stands, her time ranked as well. “And just in time, too – it is time for the other candidates to come through!”

A second sharp whistle blasted through the arena, which distracted the Shortsnout enough that Diggory was able to get past her. He didn’t get through entirely, though, because the dragon decided the new targets were too far away and turned, breathing a storm of fire directly at him. Diggory heard it, a split second before it came, and threw up a shield – but only a _Protego,_ and the crowd groaned in sympathy as the fire bled through, burning one side of his face.

Still, the shield blunted the heat of the dragonfire, and, with his hair still smoking and a dark burn on his face, Diggory grabbed the second ribbon, earning himself a respectable second-place finish, at five minutes, eleven seconds.

The dragons were distracted by the new targets, still, but with ten possible targets to go after, Aldon could see that things were becoming much easier. George Weasley and Katie Bell had used the new distractions conveniently to get past their current obstacles, but still had more than fifty feet to cover; looking back to the starting point, Aldon saw that several candidates were still huddled in group, fearfully watching the spectacle, while Fred Weasley and McLaggen had taken a page out of Harriett’s book and had summoned their brooms.

Weasley was quickly proving that Harriett was dawdling in the skies – he was shooting across the pitch, faster than any other candidate, the occasional claw or spout of flame nothing more than a loose Bludger. He barrel-rolled out of the way of one stream of fire, but his eyes were narrowed a straight at his target on the other side of the pitch. McLaggen, though, was clearly nowhere near the flier that either Harriett or Weasley were; he was slow dodging a spurt of flame from the Horntail, forgetting to account for his broom, and his tail end was now on fire. He kept flying, doggedly, but sagging closer to the ground, and it was clear he wouldn’t make it more than halfway before having to give up on that endeavour.

“Coming in third place, now, is Alexander Willoughby, of Ravenclaw, at five minutes, forty-two seconds!” Bagman shouted, sounding more than slightly flummoxed, and Aldon stood up in surprise, unclenching his fists. Alex was, indeed, no longer behind his Transfigured rock, but standing, unharmed, on the other side with a ribbon in his hand with Johnston and Diggory. He waved genially to the roaring, if confused, crowd. “Well, I’m not sure how that came about, but here he is!”

From the start, to the end, without crossing in between … Aldon looked at the rock, then at his smugly smiling friend standing with the other three champions, and laughed. It was a strained laugh, but a true one nonetheless.

“He Apparated,” he said, settling back down in his seat and pulling his cloak back around him. “He spent that entire time examining the wards and spells, and he either broke the Anti-Apparition Ward, or he realized he could Apparate without any harm. Brilliant. Did anyone see?”

“Doubtful,” Ed replied, voice amused as he scanned the field. Fred Weasley dove down from the Shortsnout’s blind side, a wild dive with seemingly no control, and swiped a ribbon before pulling up and out of the way. Six minutes, one second – he hadn’t wasted any time on his wild sprint across the pitch. George Weasley followed through only four seconds later, on the ground. “The others are too occupied with the dragons. And Rigel is still flying circles in the air.”

Aldon nodded, satisfied – he didn’t think any of the others would risk copying it anyway. Bell had come through, earning a decent score of six minutes and thirty-three seconds. Of the ones left, only Appleby was of age and might even have an Apparition license, but if she hadn’t seen Alex do it, she likely wouldn’t think of it.   On the pitch, he could see that she had formed a group with Kelly and two of the Ravenclaws, and they were moving as a pack through the field with moderate success. Four on one odds helped; he watched as Cameron, guarded by her friends, wove an especially complex sleeping enchantment against the Longhorn. They slipped past, but the great creature snored, unleashing a gout of flame that lit Hendry’s robes on fire. Kelly put it out with a hasty _Aguamenti,_ and they were hugging the walls of the pitch, slowly but surely sneaking past the Horntail while McLaggen kept it occupied.

Aldon looked into the sky. Harriett was still flying, engaging this time with the Welsh Green. She darted around the great dragon like an annoying fly, tempting it, flying first one way, then then other. The dragon’s eyes followed her around in the sky, breathing fire at her ever so often. She was careful, though, always flying just out of range and with more than enough time to dodge the flames.

The crowd roared, and Aldon looked over. The Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff girls’ group had made the other end – the Shortsnout was lying on the ground, _not_ sleeping, but stunned. “And look at that! Four candidates have taken their ribbons – can we all get a rousing cheer for Tamsin Appleby, Allison Hendry, Quinn Cameron, and Catherine Kelly for their excellent teamwork, finishing in a very respectable eleven minutes and twenty-nine seconds!”

Aldon raised an eyebrow; since they had enchanted the Longhorn, he was surprised they had taken such measures with the Shortsnout. On the other hand, Cameron was pale and panting, clearly low on magic; the enchantment spell must have been a strong one. A tandem _Stupefy_ would have been less power, and with an amplification spell or two, was powerful enough to Stun a dragon. The timing for the spell had to have been precise, and Aldon was impressed despite himself. It was obvious that the four of them, who hadn’t done well in the first task, had banded together to demonstrate their ability to work as a team.

That left only Harriett and McLaggen. Harriett was still at it – still taunting the Welsh Green, drawing it into the sky. She flew circles around its head, changing directions every so often, always just a bit out of reach. The great creature sighed, a plume of smoke rising. The only way to get at her was in the sky, and it was into the sky that the dragon leapt. Harriett darted further up, just until it had gotten two, three feet off the ground, then she dove, zipping past the dragon. He wasn’t surprised – with only two people left, there was no reason for her to continue dawdling, and with two dragons out of the picture, it was increasingly harder for her to pretend that she was struggling.

She was most of the way across the pitch when the crowd – one amorphous being – gasped. Or, perhaps just enough people gasped that she noticed, or perhaps it was the cry of pain from McLaggen that she heard. She was past him – far enough past that she didn’t need to turn back, and Aldon didn’t even think anyone would fault her for not turning back. She _was_ a Slytherin, it wasn’t expected of them, and McLaggen was an aggravating blowhard anyway.

But turn back she did, and she saw that he had fallen to the ground, and that the Horntail was advancing on him, drawing its head back to breathe fire. And she turned her broom around, and raced to him, and Aldon groaned out loud as the Slytherin stands, so eagerly cheering her on just a second ago, fell silent.

“The idiot,” he breathed, fighting the urge to close his eyes. He felt Ed’s hand grip his shoulder. “The absolute, utter, idiot.”

Harriett raced to McLaggen, throwing out a shield as she did so, a _Fortis_ shield with plenty of power, and then a second shield made of red fire which ate the dragonfire as it advanced. A _Depasco_ shield – _she was an idiot_. Yes, they all knew she was powerful already, but did she need to flaunt it in front of the judges? Depasco shields were only cast by the extremely powerful, and never for long, but she held it for nearly ten, twelve seconds while the dragonfire splashed against it, while her Fortis shield broke under the heat.

It bought them time, and she grabbed McLaggen by the collar, dragging him to his feet and onto her broom. She was hampered by the extra weight, but not enough, because she was a damn good flier and it was a straight shot to the last two ribbons. She grabbed both in one hand, sailing into the safe zone established at the other end, just as the Welsh Green turned on the Horntail and they spit flames at each other.

“And that’s all of the candidates!” Bagman shouted. “Arcturus Rigel Black and Cormac McLaggen bring in a time of fifteen minutes and twenty seconds. The judges will be deliberating all afternoon, and the Hogwarts team will be announced at the Halloween Feast, tonight, but let’s hear it for all of our candidates, whether they succeed or not!”

Aldon looked down at the pitch, where dragonkeepers – eight per dragon – had already begun subduing the Welsh Green and the Horntail, and caring for the two unconscious dragons. He looked, too, to the candidates at the far end, wearing expressions varying from smug pride to relief to polite blankness, and slapped Ed on the shoulder. His hands were damp with nervous sweat.

“I think, Edmund,” he announced faintly, “that I might need a drink.”

It took Aldon two shots of Firewhiskey in his and Ed’s shared dormitory to feel like himself again, and if it wasn’t for the fact that Ed confiscated it and gave the rest to their Housemates for the second Rigel Black Victory Party, Aldon would have probably had a few more shots that afternoon. Harriett sat, again, in the place of honour in the Slytherin common room, surrounded by her friends, as her Housemates congratulated her. She smiled pleasantly, politely, that little smile that didn’t reach her eyes, thanking them for their support.

“I’m sure they won’t take your time into that much consideration for the second task,” Lucian said, patting her on the back as Aldon tensed. “You were unlucky, the dragons just wouldn’t leave you alone, but you didn’t get injured. And you saved McLaggen, too, so they’ll count that.”

“Thank you, Lucian,” she replied, even if her eyes were perfectly blank. “I hope not.”

Aldon smirked hearing the last part – it was obvious she meant that she hoped they were all wrong, that she was out of it, but her words were vague enough to be interpreted any which way. He didn’t have the heart to go tell her that it probably didn’t matter what she had done; with the selection committee being Lord Riddle, three Ministry officials, and Dumbledore, the chances of her not being selected were practically non-existent. He didn’t, because this was the Rigel Black Victory Party, because he wasn’t supposed to know that, because they were in public, they were in front of her whole House, and how could he reveal that she tried to throw the second task in front of everyone? And, he told himself nobly, he wanted her to have a few more hours of believing that she might _not_ be picked, even when all the clues he had argued that it was more likely than not that her being in the Tournament wasn’t a prank, wasn’t a misguided joke, but was a plan.

If his core hadn’t rung with his own lie, he would have even believed himself. No, instead, because he knew he was lying, he knew he was just too much of a coward to tell her ahead of time. It wouldn’t make a difference, anyway. God, he wished Ed hadn’t confiscated the Firewhiskey.

That night, at the end of the Feast, he saw her face go blank when they called her name.

“The Hogwarts Triwizard Team will be, first, Arcturus Rigel Black, of Slytherin, who demonstrated resourcefulness and moral fibre in assisting _all_ of the candidates reach the other side safely. Second, Angelina Johnston, of Gryffindor, who demonstrated courage, physical ability, and aptitude at movement spells. Third, Cedric Diggory, of Hufflepuff, for his perseverance and aptitude at both offensive and defensive spells,” Bagman announced, his eyes sparking, his tone _far_ too joyous. “The alternate will be Alexander Willoughby, of Ravenclaw, who demonstrated great cleverness in breaking the Anti-Apparition Wards on the arena. Both Hogwarts, and the Ministry of Magic, know that you will represent your school and your country admirably in the Tournament, and we wish you the best of luck!”

The Great Hall exploded in wild, raucous cheering. If it wasn’t for the fact that Arcturus Rigel Black was actually Harriett Potter, in disguise, Aldon would have been impressed; the judges had carefully picked one candidate from every House, giving all the students someone to cheer for, something to unite them all.

But, since Arcturus Rigel Black _was_ Harriett Potter, all Aldon felt was looming dread. Looming dread and a grim, dark sense of resignation. It was Halloween, and it always was Harriett Potter.

XXX

Harriett Potter was a lady. She was highborn, Book of Gold nobility, whether she was halfblooded or not, and Aldon was, halfblooded or not, a noble, Book of Copper gentleman. He had not been raised to leave women or girls in danger, particularly not highborn ones. He was the only one who knew who Harriett Potter was, who knew that Arcturus Rigel Black was actually Harriett Potter in disguise, and he felt the weight of obligation on his shoulders.

It was not an unwelcome weight, which was a surprise in and of itself. He didn’t resent Harriett – he remembered all too well the regret he felt last year, when she had nearly died. It wasn’t Harriett’s fault that she had been targeted. Perhaps it was her fault for coming to Hogwarts, committing blood identity theft to do it, but Aldon couldn’t bring himself to blame her for that, either. She was a halfblood, and so was he. The exclusionary rules were unfair, and he had always admired her passion, her determination, and she _used_ her opportunities at Hogwarts so much better than most of the purebloods who came to Hogwarts as a matter of course. How could he be upset at her, when he was no better, when he was perhaps worse?

And Harriett never asked for help. She never even expected help, and yet she always gave it out to anyone who needed it, without asking for anything in return. She _chose_ to give up all the benefits of her sex to come to Hogwarts, _chose_ to pretend to be her pureblood cousin, and if Aldon _chose_ to do what he could to protect her anyway, it was his _choice_ to do so.

A week after the announcement of the team, a discreet notice went up on the notice board in the Great Hall.

 

_TRIWIZARD TOURNAMENT_

_STUDENT SUPPORT TEAM RECRUITMENT_

_The Hogwarts Triwizard Team is seeking:_

_3 Strategists_

_3 Healers_

_2 Equipment Managers_

_2 Compliance Officers_

_For further details and to apply, please provide a letter of interest describing your qualifications to a member of the Hogwarts Triwizard Team (Angelina Johnson, Cedric Diggory, Rigel Black, or Alexander Willoughby) for consideration no later than November 30._

Aldon pursed his lips, staring at the notice. The team itself was responsible for selecting its own support team, he recalled, and while he had no idea what any of the roles entailed (other than Healers, that seemed to be self-evident), it would be his best chance of being able to do something, anything to protect Harriett.

“Aldon,” Ed was beside him, taking in the look on his face. “Are you actually considering …?”

He sounded taken aback, Aldon thought distantly. Well, he supposed that he was not particularly inclined to danger, and this type of thing could, in the absence of some crucial pieces of information, be seen as being somewhat outside of his normal behaviour. “I’m thinking about it,” he said simply, turning away from it and heading to the Slytherin table instead.

There was a pause, and Aldon didn’t need to look at the expression on Ed’s face to know that he was surprised, but he didn’t bother explaining. He didn’t think he needed to explain, for one, and even if he did, what would he say? Ed already suspected that Aldon liked Rigel, and that was even true. Aldon liked Rigel, because Rigel was Harriett Potter – no need to go into the details of the latter point. There was a pause, and he heard Ed’s footsteps behind him, a beat slower than he normally would have.

He wouldn’t go to Harriett herself, of course. There was no need for her to know that he was putting his name in for a support position, especially not ahead of time, when she might argue against having him there. And he didn’t know Diggory all that well, or Johnston.  But he did know Alex, and if he pre-emptively went to Alex and negotiated a place for himself on the support team, well, that was expected behaviour for a Slytherin. And, anyway, he needed further details to write a persuasive argument for why he should be given a spot on the support team.

It was with that in mind that he made his way to Ravenclaw Tower, only a day or two later. He rapped smartly on the door. The eagle awoke, staring beadily at him.

“What is a room that no one can enter?” it asked.

Aldon stared at it for a few moments. A year ago, he would have been annoyed, snapping out possible answers until the door acquiesced (or, more likely, a Ravenclaw let him in). The handle was stupidly, stupidly implacable, and why was it that the house known for _cleverness_ and _intellectual curiosity_ asked riddles anyway? It wasn’t as though being good at riddles made anyone more intelligent or curious.

He pondered it for a minute, two, then it came to him. “A mushroom,” he replied bluntly, and the door swung open.

A quick scan of the Ravenclaw common room revealed he wasn’t there, but he did spot Alvin Dauphney, a seventh year who shared his Charms class, curled up with a book on natural magic in a round armchair. He tapped him on the shoulder. “Would you happen to know where Alex is?”

Dauphney nodded, disinterested. “Studying in E21,” he said, waving generally in the direction of the stairs to the study rooms. After so many visits to Ravenclaw Tower, Aldon barely had to think to know which room he meant; E stood for experimentation room, 2 was the floor, 1 was the room number.

Aldon nodded his thanks, not that Dauphney noticed, and made his way into the room. His friend was pouring over a sheaf of notes, not in his handwriting.

“Aldon,” he looked up at the sound of the door opening, setting his sheaf of parchment to one side. “I didn’t expect to see you here. What can I do for you?”

Aldon used his most winning smile on his friend, who only raised an eyebrow. Damn, Alex was coming to know him a little too well. He sighed. “I came to ask about the support team positions,” he said, sitting down across the table from Alex. And to sway him into putting him on the support team, but he didn’t think Alex would take well to the bald request.

“Are you considering applying?” he asked, leaning back, his face openly betraying his surprise. Internally, Aldon groaned. He really wasn’t that aloof from school activities, was he? He had his friends. He was in the Dueling Club, even if that was largely forced by Ed. Was it so surprising that he would want to be involved?

“I suppose I am,” Aldon said, shrugging slightly, somewhat uncomfortable.  “Is that a problem?”

Alex tilted his head to one side in consideration, running a hand through his chestnut hair. “No, no. In truth, I’m happy you want to be involved, you would be a great asset. What do you want to know?”

“Well, for one, what are the roles? I don’t think I’m suited to be a Healer, but what are the other positions?” Aldon leaned forward.

Alex smiled, a small smile that showed none of his teeth. “Do you remember what the games are, against the other schools?”

“I think so,” Aldon cast back to the Welcome Feast. “The games are on a battleground, which can be any terrain, and each team has a keystone to guard. The teams are aiming to find and destroy the other team’s keystone, and the game is won when either one team’s keystone is destroyed, or when an entire team is eliminated. Is that right?”

“Almost word for word what Dumbledore said,” Alex nodded, with a tiny smirk. Aldon glared at him. Trust Alex to tease when things were so serious. “Makes more sense when you watch a game – Chang has some memory orbs with old games. It’s a war game. Different schools employ different strategies; for example, you don’t _need_ to try to destroy the other team’s keystone, you might only want to eliminate their players, by putting them into a position where they cannot continue the match. Usually that means knocking the player unconscious, whether by Stunning or other means. Some schools try to avoid the other team’s players entirely and use stealth to find and destroy the other team’s keystone first. How a school plays depends on the team members and the school’s strengths. For example, Chang says Durmstrang is very combat-based and usually their team members can free duel-”

Aldon swallowed, feeling the blood drain from his face. “Free duel?”

Alex shrugged, nonchalant. “It’s not illegal in eastern Europe. Ougadou always sends Animagi, Mahoutokoro does best in terrains which allow for flying. I’ve been getting up to speed with Chang’s notes.” He gestured to the sheaf of parchment.

Aldon took a deep breath. If free-dueling was a reasonable expectation in this tournament, then he understood why dragons were the second task, why he _needed_ to make it onto the team. “So, the roles?”

Alex nodded, just once, returning to the topic. “It is usual for the team members to be separated during a match, so strategists are the communications unit – each team member is connected to a strategist with a communication orb, and the strategists can communicate with each other and pass on messages. Strategists also have an overall view of the battleground. Chang says that, in recent years, strategists have taken a bigger role and started acting as tacticians and generals – memory orbs sometimes now include strategist communications, but strategists cannot enter the battleground.

“Healers are the only other students allowed into the battleground during the games. Each school has three Healers, and they are expected to enter and Heal their team’s players if they are injured. Healers are not allowed to revive an unconscious student and they formally signal that their players are unable to continue if they are grievously injured. However, if the injury is minor, they can also choose to Heal the player and let them continue. Chang says that AIM is known for their Healers, so their players take bigger risks and continue play.

“Each player can bring in three items to help them, excluding wands and other channelling items. Equipment Managers are responsible for outfitting their teams with items for competition. Compliance Officers ensure that their team and the other team follow the rules of the game – they inspect all the items the other team plans on bringing before the games, and they appeal game results if they believe the players have broken the rules. Chang says that appeals are rarely successful, but if they are, they can overturn a game result. Are you thinking about any role in particular?”

Aldon leaned back, thinking it over. Obviously, he couldn’t be a Healer, he didn’t have any of the skills. He wasn’t interested in being an Equipment Manager, either, but either of the other two roles would be fine. If inspecting the other team’s items was anything like work in the New Developments Division, his magical theory expertise could be of use. But Alex had said, earlier, that he would be a great asset, and he did have that gleam in his eyes, too. “Anything you would suggest?”

Alex hesitated. “A strategist,” he admitted slowly. “You are the best magical theorist at Hogwarts. If any other team brings anything new, and Chang says they almost always do, you have the best chance of knowing how to combat it right away, or of reverse-engineering it.”

“I sense a “but” in there, Alex,” Aldon replied, his tone light, even if he was deadly serious.

Alex hesitated for several long moments, reaching over to shuffle through his sheaf of papers. Aldon followed his gaze, but could make nothing of the cramped handwriting from this angle. He turned his attention back to Alex, tapping his fingers on the table between them slowly, while Alex glanced through the papers in front of him. Aldon could be patient if he needed to be, as long as it wasn’t against Ed, and he was rewarded when Alex sighed. “But _nothing_ , Aldon.”

Aldon nodded slowly, taking the time to phrase his next statement carefully. “I should very much like to be a part of the team.”

Alex snorted. “Save your Slytherin tricks. I won’t ask why. You would be a good asset. I’ll talk to the team; Ced will be supportive, he knows your skills as well as I do, and we should be able to talk Black and Johnston around. Put in a decent letter, though, won’t you?”

Aldon smiled, a quick, genuine smile at his friend who was really coming to know him a little too well, and stood. “Certainly.” 

XXX

It took him four drafts of a letter of interest before he had one he could owl to Alex.

His first letter was too disorganized, there was no train, no logic to the argument for why he should be allowed a strategist position. In his second letter, he had reiterated his marks as if they meant something, until he remembered what Alex had said about his potential usefulness. His third letter had been satisfactory, narrowing in his skill in magical theory, but once he finished it, he realized he had forgotten about his two summers in the New Developments Division, and most of Hogwarts thought Magical Theory was for Squibs, so he needed to address that. His fourth letter, he thought, hit all the points exactly.

 

_Dear Hogwarts Triwizard Team,_

_I am writing to express my interest in joining your support team for the Triwizard Tournament as a strategist. I am confident that you will find my skills to be of use._

_As a seventh-year, I am enrolled in NEWT-level Transfigurations, Charms, Curse-breaking, Ward Construction, Potions, and Ancient Runes, with “E”s and “O”s in all of my courses. More importantly, however, I have a particular interest in Magical Theory. As a sixth-year, I wrote the ICW Secondary Examination in Magical Theory, and scored in the top 10% across Europe. As part of my preparation for that examination, I also became familiar with various methods of channelling magic, as well as with both natural and wild magic. In addition, for the past two summers, I have also interned with the New Developments Division of the Rosier Investment Trust, which considers, tests and funds ideas for new wizarding technology._

_As an international competition, I expect that we will be faced with teams using magic or wizarding technologies in ways that we have not before seen. As a magical theorist, I am the best equipped both to advise the team on any new methods or technologies, and, if necessary, to reverse-engineer new technologies on the basis of limited information._

_I look forward to your consideration._

He signed it, sealed and sent it. He used nearly Alex’s words, purposely so, because with Alex and Diggory supporting his application for those reasons, it was better, he thought, to present a consistent argument. And, really, he _was_ probably the best magical theorist at Hogwarts.

In mid-December, blue envelopes drifted through the Great Hall with the morning post, standing out from the mass by their vibrant colour. Ten blue envelopes, carried by ten nondescript school owls, flashing in the mass of white and grey. They hovered for a minute, swirling around, waiting for the other owls to deliver their mail first, waiting until the students’ attention was on them, before they found their targets, and Aldon knew immediately what they were. He wondered vaguely whose idea it was to make the announcements so dramatic, because it certainly wouldn’t have been Alex’s or Harriett’s. He didn’t know Diggory all that well, but it didn’t seem his style, either.

One of the owls dropped a blue envelope, labelled “ _Aldon Rosier_ ”, into his lap. He grasped it in his hands, grabbed an unused butter knife off the table to slit it open, and pulled out one thin sheet of parchment with only three words on it.

_Aldon Rosier: Strategist._

He breathed out, a long sigh of relief. At least, when the games began, Harriett would have one more person protecting her secret.


	4. Chapter 4

 

On the twenty-eighth of December, Aldon took his time picking out his robes for the first Tournament strategy meeting. The Changs were hosting, but they were not a noble family, nor a wealthy one – they were respectably middle class, but it would be rude to arrive flaunting his noble status. He dug deep through his wardrobe, eventually coming up with plain, navy blue robes, trimmed in light gold. They were a light wool, suiting the weather nicely, and he pulled on a thick, grey cloak, fastened with a golden clasp. His favourite, worn, black boots completed the ensemble neatly, and out the door he went.

The Changs lived in Muggle Edinburgh, and Aldon was careful to focus on the Apparition coordinates Chang had given him before the break. She had said that they would lead to her backyard, out of the sight of her neighbours, and they were also connected by Floo, but Aldon had (finally, on his third try) received his Apparition license and wanted to use it. He turned on the spot, gritted his teeth through the intense squeezing sensation of Apparition, and appeared in a covered backyard.

The Chang residence was small, a two-storey row-house on the outskirts of Edinburgh, smaller than any other house of anyone in his acquaintance, but at the same time it had a cozy look to it that he, surprisingly, liked. He could feel the heat coming off the home just approaching the back steps, hear the laughter of some of his teammates from the inside already. He checked his watch – he was on time, or maybe a minute off.

He heard a pop from behind him and turned to see Ed, landing gracefully from his own Apparition. Ed had had his license months earlier, of course, passing on his first try nearly a year ago now. Still, he shot his friend a smile of relief – it was always easier to show up to new places as part of a group, rather than alone.

“Aldon,” Ed greeted him with a quick nod. Ed was on the support team as a Healer; Aldon supposed that the Hogwarts Healing program was so small that there just weren’t many qualified candidates. And since Ed had been Healing animals at their family animal shelter for years now, he did have a solid grasp of first aid. “I’m glad you Apparated safely. Shall we go in?”

Aldon rolled his eyes at his friend. Trust Ed to _still_ tease him about his multiple attempts to pass the Apparition test. The first time, last June, had been simply painful, because Aldon had splinched himself, leaving some of his toes behind. It was fixed right away, but it still took him a few months to work up the nerve to try it again. The second time hadn’t been as bad, but he had overshot his target by a couple miles, landing, somewhat fortunately, in the middle of nowhere. He did Apparate to the target, it was only an unfortunate and unplanned stopover, but they caught on and failed him again. He had it the third time, though. He turned away from his friend, heading up the two steps to the back door, and rapping on it smartly. “Very funny, Edmund.”

“Welcome, welcome!” The back door flew open, revealing a slight, almond-eyed woman with close-cropped black hair streaked with grey. Her English was proper, but still bore an accent. “It is such a pleasure for us to have you.”

Aldon bowed slightly, the standard fifteen degrees of a nobleman to a respected member of the community, or to a lesser-blooded noble. “Thank you for your hospitality, Mrs. Chang,” Aldon said easily, pulling out an assorted package of sweets from Honeydukes from his pocket and stepping inside as she welcomed him in. He stood to one side, allowing Ed entrance as well. “I hope you and your family are having a happy holiday.”

Ed passed over a box of Chocolate Frogs, murmuring the same sentiments.

“You shouldn’t have,” Mrs. Chang replied, accepting the gifts with grace. “Cho and the others are in the front sitting room – we have expanded the space, so there should be plenty of room for everyone. Have you eaten? I’ll prepare a platter.”

They were among the last to arrive, Aldon saw, looking around the expanded sitting room. It did have that characteristically stretched look, and he spotted the paper charms in the corners of the room anchoring the spells. The seats were artificially stretched, too, with the armchair having been turned into a loveseat, the loveseat into a bench, and the sofa now seating five. Other chairs, too, had evidently been pulled into the sitting room from other spaces; these chairs were strange in their normalcy, lacking the stretched look.

Harriett was already there – for the briefest of instants, he had wondered whether, since Arcturus Rigel Black would be back from America, if it would be Arcturus attending their first strategy meeting. He didn’t think he would be able to tell the difference, to be blunt – both Harriett and the real Arcturus Rigel Black had set off his gift last year at the Gala, and he didn’t see any reason why that would have changed. He would assume it was Harriett, because there was no reason why Arcturus, instead of Harriett, would have attended their first team strategy meeting.

Aldon exchanged a nod with Alex, seated beside Diggory on the stretched-out armchair, and took a seat in one of the remaining chairs, looking around with interest. There was a stretched-out golden shrine in the corner, and lacquered, rectangular plates depicting cranes hung on the walls. Chang’s family, he recalled briefly, were immigrants from Wizarding China. Their wizarding community had been disrupted, decades ago, by Muggle events, and there were many witches and wizards of Chinese descent worldwide. Still, for every witch or wizard who had fled, there were two that stayed, and the Chinese wizarding community was still one of the largest in the world.

“Rosier, Rookwood,” Cho said, rising from her seat in the corner of the sofa, which she had been sharing with three Hufflepuff girls and Johnston. Outside of her Hogwarts robes, in a modest, traditional Chinese dress of red and gold, she was stunning, and Aldon cast a discreet, but admiring, look at her figure. “Welcome! You’re the last to arrive, so we may as well start. I was thinking we might begin with introductions, since some of us don’t know each other yet, then we can talk about the Tournament itself, and if we have time, actual strategies.”

“Sorry, Chang,” Ron Weasley interrupted, waving a hand, seated between his twin brothers. All three, along with Johnston, were dressed in Muggle garb, standing out from the rest. He gestured to the four players. “But is there any reason you’re taking charge? Shouldn’t this meeting be run by the players?”

It was uncalled for, even rude, to question the hostess at her own meeting, but when Aldon looked around at the rest of the group, he realized that Weasley was doing Chang a favour. More than one of them had the same question, and by raising it and letting her address it directly, he granted her legitimacy. He glanced over at the youngest Weasley son, and saw from the way his eyes roved around the room that he was perfectly aware of what he was doing. He felt his estimation of Ronald Weasley rise a few notches, but he shouldn’t have been surprised; for all that he was used to watching Weasley be wiped on the floor by Pansy in Duelling Club, it was true that the two of them were the only ones who spent a half hour after their duels deconstructing what had happened. He had to have an analytical streak.

“Normally, it would be,” Chang conceded with a smile. “At most schools, the alternate is in charge, since he or she is expected to take up the slack in any space that opens on the team, support or player. We aren’t allowed to bring in new, undeclared team members after the Tournament starts. And rules like that are why Alex has asked that I run the first strategy meeting – out of everyone here, I know the Tournament best. My parents played at the National Magic School of China, half of my cousins in China have been involved in the games over the last twenty years. I’ve been following the Tournament my entire life. Hogwarts has been out of the circle for too long – you need me, right now, to explain to you how the Tournament works, how to score points, how to train for it.

“So that’s me. You can all call me Cho, even if we haven’t been formally introduced – it will make things easier in the long run. I am a strategist.”

There was a steely glint in her dark brown eyes as she looked around the room, waiting for another challenge, but Ron simply shrugged. “Makes sense,” he replied. “Ron Weasley. Call me Ron – I’m a strategist.”

“Because he’s a chess whiz,” one of the twins spoke up. Aldon could never tell the Weasley twins apart. “George Weasley. I’m sure you all know us, already, but Fred and I are your equipment managers. We’re going to make sure our team goes in with some fun, _experimental_ , surprises.”

“Very useful,” Cho smiled appreciatively. “Should we just go around the room, first? Oh, Bulstrode couldn’t make it, Millicent Bulstrode. She’s one of our compliance officers, but she owled this morning and said she was caught up in preparations for the SOW Party Gala.”

“The Bulstrodes are hosting this year,” Aldon added lightly, ignoring the various looks of distaste exchanged around the room. Only a minority of the people in the room would be on the guest list for the Gala – himself, Ed, Harriett. Lucky for them. “So that’s understandable. Aldon Rosier. I’m the third strategist. If something new comes up on the battleground, I’ll be responsible for figuring out what it is and how to deal with it.”

Susan Bones, a fourth-year Hufflepuff, had been picked as the other compliance officer, and took charge of one of the two fat books titled _Triwizard Tournament: Regulations_. She would be responsible for ensuring that the strategies and items used by Hogwarts complied with the rules, and she would be defending any appeals from other teams for the things that Harriett, Johnston, and Diggory did in-game. Bulstrode, her partner and opposite, would ensure the other team complied with the rules, and would be filing any appeals against the other teams for their conduct. According to Cho, appeals were very common, especially in the elimination phase, even if they were only successful once in a generation.

Aside from Ed, the other two Healers were Megan Jones and Erin Stark, two fifth-year Hufflepuffs and, according to Madam Pomfrey, the two most promising Healers at Hogwarts aside from Rigel Black. Aldon wasn’t entirely sure if that meant that they were the two most promising Healers, if they were the only two Healers, or if they were just the two most promising Healers who had applied for a position on the team. The Hogwarts healing program was so small that Aldon couldn’t rule out any of the possibilities. Midway through the introductions, Mrs. Chang brought in a platter of shortbread cookies for them all.

Cho nodded encouragingly at each introduction, every so often checking a sheet of parchment. She had probably been involved, through Alex, in picking the team in the first place. If Alex was formally in charge, it was a smart move on his part.

“So, I suppose the first thing we do is assign strategists to players,” Cho said, after they had finished their introductions. “The primary function of the strategists is communication – each player is linked by communication spell to a strategist, who is directly responsible for them as well as for passing messages through to the other players if you get separated, which you will. The strategists also have access to an overall view of the battleground, and we can pass that on to you.”

Johnston – Angelina – waved her hand in the air, frowning and eyeing the three strategists. “Why can’t we be connected to each other directly?”

Cho shrugged. “I’m not sure – strategists were an addition about thirty-five years ago, just after Hogwarts was excluded from competition. Those are the rules.”

“It’s probably because wizarding communications technology isn’t very advanced,” Aldon offered, vaguely remembering an article that he had read in his smuggled journal a couple years ago. Muggles had something called _telephones_ , which allowed them to communicate with each other over long distances with some sort of code. Different codes led to different people. One of the biggest puzzles in modern magical theory was to design something similar using wizarding technology. “Even now, if owls cannot be used, most wizards send messages by Patronus. Patronus messages have a physical limit depending on the strength of the witch or wizard; if Edmund was in France, for example, I couldn’t send him message by Patronus, because I’m not powerful enough. Even if I could, there would a time lag, and he likely couldn’t reply without summoning his own Patronus, and not everyone can summon a Patronus to begin with. There are two-way mirrors, but those are rare and are all held private collections, now; we’ve lost the wizarding technology to make a mirror that can take the complex sound and sight spells and link them. The current technology for instantaneous communication over long distances are linked orbs, which can carry sound between two orbs. But they use blood magic, so they can only connect two specific people. 

There was silence at his explanation, and the Weasleys were looking at him in surprise, though they also had a hint of calculation in their eyes.  Most of the others looked at him as if he had grown a second head, though Ed was nonplussed, Alex was hiding a smile, and Harriett, of all people, looked interested.

“Is that so?” she asked, peering at him curiously. “Does the blood _activate_ the spells, or is it an intrinsic _part_ of the spell? So, for example, if you and Rookwood had linked orbs, and I stole yours, could I use it to contact him? If the blood is an intrinsic part of the spell, does it carry _all_ sound, or just the person’s voice? How does it work?”

Aldon blinked and tilted his head to one side. She had never mentioned an interest in magical theory to him, and as far as he knew, she wasn’t even in the Magical Theory course. “I haven’t seen one for myself, but there was an article in the _American Journal of Magical Theory_ two years ago that covered some of the theory. From my understanding, the blood is an intrinsic part of the communication spell – I would need to be in physical contact with the orb to activate the speaking spell, though I believe it would transmit through without your involvement. But you couldn’t activate a linked orb between Edmund and I, so you would only be able to listen. If the person is in contact with the orb and has the speaking spell active, I think it carries all sound. As for how the speaking spell itself works, I don’t remember; I would need to refer you to the article. Now, interestingly, _recording_ spells are something quite different, though you wouldn’t think they would be--”

Aldon stopped suddenly, realizing that the entire room was now staring at them both, open-mouthed. He _had_ said he was responsible for figuring out what new things the other teams did, hadn’t he? He sighed dramatically. “I _said_ I liked magical theory. What did you all think I meant?”

“Don’t take this the wrong way, Rosier,” Johnston said, eyes wide, “but I am _not_ doing blood magic with you. If I need a strategist, I’m picking Weasley – I’m sorry, I’ve actually seen Weasley demolishing everyone in twenty moves or less in Gryffindor, and if blood magic is involved, I don’t trust you.”

Aldon suppressed a roll of his eyes. He didn’t care – if he had to be assigned one player, he would find a way to assign himself to Harriett – but he couldn’t resist needling her. “Fine with me, but you know that blood magic is one of the most common ways of doing magic worldwide, right? It might be taboo here, but in fairness, it allows for incredibly customized spells and defenses. A lot of advanced Healing potions involve blood.”

“Still not doing blood magic with you, Rosier,” Johnston repeated, though she smiled to soften the blow. “And considering Rigel looks like he actually understood the communication spell insanity you just spewed, I think you should pair up with him. He’s the most likely to understand and act on whatever you figure out on the fly.”

Aldon inclined his head in acceptance, wondering if it really was that easy. That was absurdly convenient – he had expected quite a bit more conversational manoeuvring, that this seemed almost like a trick. He glanced over at Harriett, who hesitated for a second, but nodded in agreement.

“That works for me,” Diggory said, smiling at Cho. “Cho?”

“Yes,” she agreed quickly, her cheeks flushing. She turned to look down at her parchment. “Now that that’s worked out, does anyone need me to go through the other roles? No? All right. Let’s move onto the other schools’ teams. Alex – would you – thanks.” She took the package that he offered her, a pile of booklets, and passed them around. Aldon looked down at his: _Triwizard Teams 1995_.

He paged through it, quickly. The paper was glossy, smooth to the touch, rather unlike parchment, but he saw that the pictures in it were in much higher quality than they were in the Daily Prophet, or even in paintings. Each school, he saw, had two pages: on one side, there were the four players, photos and names only, and on the opposite was a simple list of school’s support team, listed by positions. As the host, the Hogwarts team came first in the booklet, followed in alphabetical order for the rest. At the back was a page listing the pools and match order, several pages with blank, oddly designed, grids, and one spread with a blank tournament bracket.

“First things first – does anyone recognize any of the names on _any_ of the other teams?” Cho asked, flipping through her copy of the manual. “I can tell you from looking at the National Magic School of China team that, unless they swap in their alternate, I think they’ll have one paper-caster and two heirloom-casters, this year. Their alternate is a second paper-caster. I don’t know them myself, but that’s what I would guess from their surnames.”

It took Aldon a few seconds to work out what she had said, before he nodded in understanding. However, it was evident that most of the others had not understood, but didn’t want to ask. There was a cool silence, for a minute, before Ed spoke. “Could you explain that?”

Cho blinked. “Oh, right. Chinese wizardry doesn’t use wands, and there are two main schools. Paper-casters use paper charms to cast spells; heirloom-casters use an item like a wand, but it’s customized for each person or family. Only the oldest Chinese wizarding families use heirloom magic, usually the boys cast with a sword, and the girls with a fan.”

“They’re in Pool D. Don’t worry until direct eliminations,” Alex interrupted, waving a hand dismissively. “We’re in Pool A.”

Ron waved his hand in the air. “Back up. I know that we need to win the pools to get into direct elimination, and in pools we have a match against all the other teams in our pool. What happens if two teams tie? You could have two teams, in a pool of four, winning two games and losing one each.”

“It’s a point-based system through the pool phase,” Bones replied, raising her head from the rulebook. She had been following the conversation, if only on and off, while paging through her book. “You end the game by either destroying the other team’s keystone, or by eliminating all of their players, but destroying the keystone is worth three points and each player is worth one point. If I understand this correctly, this means a team could get up to five points in a match, by eliminating two of the other team’s players and then destroying their keystone. So really, it’s the team scoring the most points that passes through to the next phase, but if points won are tied, then it looks like they consider points lost as well, and if they are still tied, a one-on-one duel. The winning teams from each pool automatically go to the elimination rounds, with two wild card slots for the best scoring teams who didn’t win their pool.”

“That means that the margins are important,” one of the Weasley twins added, cottoning on quickly. “In the first phase, it’s disadvantageous only to try to destroy the keystone, we’ll want to eliminate as many players as possible earlier on.”

“And the other team will have the same goal, on that front,” the other twin said, his voice considering. “We should arm everyone up with more defensive items in the first phase, then. Switch to a mix of defensive and offensive in the second phase, if we make it there.”

“No _if_ , everyone,” Diggory grinned, leaning forward from the armchair he shared with Alex. “We’ll make the second phase. Think positive.”

Alex looked as though he wanted to roll his eyes at Diggory, but he merely crossed his arms, instead. “Think realistically,” he commented dryly. “Pool A includes AIM, Patagonia and the ICW School. Know anyone?”

There was a pause – Aldon himself skimmed the pages. He saw, for the American Institute of Magic, _Harry Potter_ listed under the Healers, but no doubt Harriett would catch that. The Rosiers did little business in America, anyway – of all the magical governments, MACUSA had the strongest trade sanctions against Wizarding Britain. He turned over to the ICW school – a French school, it took students from France, Belgium and Switzerland, a few from Italy. Beauxbatons, the more prestigious of the two French schools, restricted their student body to those from the wealthiest, most established wizarding families, leaving the remainder, mainly Muggleborns and students from poorer wizarding families, to go to the ICW school. He didn’t recognize anyone, but he hadn’t expected to. The same could be said about the Patagonian School, simply because the Rosier Investment Trust didn’t do any business in South America. Looking up, he saw that most of his teammates were similarly shaking their heads.

“My cousin Harry is on the AIM team as a Healer,” Harriett said, her voice matter-of-fact, even as she lied. It was only a half-lie, though, so Aldon guessed that other than identity, she was speaking the truth. “Her best friend, Hermione Granger, is one of their Compliance Officers. Harry says that Granger is extremely sharp, and they are both in the AIM Healing track.”

“I’m not _entirely_ sure, but the name Kowalski, on their team, is familiar,” Jones offered, her soft voice hesitant. “The family is associated with the Scamanders, since the 1930s during the war against Grindelwald--”

She fell silent, suddenly, shaking her head. “Sorry. I’m mistaken.”

Chang frowned at her, and Aldon favoured her with a sharp look, his core buzzing. Whatever Jones had realized, she certainly did not believe she was mistaken. He took in her composed face, tight lips pressed together – she knew something. “I don’t remember that from History of Magic, and we covered the Grindelwald Wars earlier this year. The Scamanders played a big role, but I don’t recall any other family being associated with them.” 

Jones shook her head, resolute. “I was mistaken,” she lied again.

“Stop lying,” Aldon ordered bluntly. Normally, he would be inclined to let this kind of lie slide, but John Kowalski was listed as a player, and since Hogwarts would be facing AIM in the pools, it was important to have as much information as possible. “It’s obvious you don’t think you’re mistaken. If it might be relevant or helpful, you should say it. How could we prepare otherwise?”

Jones glared at him, lips pursed, and crossed her arms. “Fine. Can someone cast a privacy ward?”

Ed and the Weasley twins quickly cast _Muffliato_ spells on each of the walls, but Aldon took caution and threw on a runic ward as well – it was only a few runes on each wall, since he could follow the integrity and shape of the building itself to form the circle.

Jones lowered her voice anyway. “My grandfather was on Dumbledore’s side during the Grindelwald Wars. They cut it out of the History of Magic classes, but a Muggle, Jacob Kowalski, helped Newt Scamander on his missions in Eastern Europe throughout the war. The Ministry removed him from our History books because he’s a Muggle – that’s why the Scamanders won’t send their children to Hogwarts anymore, even though they’re pureblood. Jacob Kowalski married Scamander’s sister-in-law, Queenie Goldstein, so their children are all halfbloods. They live in America. It’s possible that John Kowalski is a direct descendant; if he is, you should know that the Queenie Goldstein is a Natural Legilimens, it may have been passed down.”

“Natural Legilimency is rare, though.” Ron said, somewhat skeptically. “Seems unlikely. Still, if he is, I can see why they would put him on their team.”

Cho nodded slowly, making a note in her copy of the booklet. “Anyone else know anything? AIM will be our biggest competition in the pools – they won the Tournament twenty years ago, and they’ve only lost their pool once since that time. Patagonia has only made the direct elimination once in the past forty years, same with ICW, so they are less of a concern, though we shouldn’t take them lightly, either.”

She waited for a minute or so, but no one else had anything to add. Aldon wasn’t surprised – other than a few of the strongest business families, and perhaps some of those with connections at the Department of International Magical Cooperation, few pureblood families would have the wide international network needed to recognize specific families.

“Alright, let’s move onto strategies, then.” Cho shrugged slightly, a slight frown crossing her face. “The difficulty with our pool is that no one has a consistent strategy. AIM is known for their Healing and experimental charms – they almost always bring something original to the Triwizard Tournament, which is historically why they are so successful. And since they have the best Healers, their players aren’t afraid to get hurt, either. Patagonia I know very little about, the one year they made it into the direct elimination, they were in a weaker pool of three. ICW is the same.

“So, since most of you haven’t seen any Tournament games before, I was thinking we might want to watch a few of the ones I have. I have memory orbs for a few AIM games, since they make the direct elimination fairly reliably, but our collection admittedly focuses on the National Magic School of China.” Her smile became hesitant, hopeful – Aldon wasn’t sure why, it was entirely obvious over the last term that Chang and her family were obsessed with the Tournament, and she never seemed embarrassed about it before. Still, she seemed reassured by the wave of assent and encouragement around the room, stood and walked over to a cabinet that Aldon saw was locked with a paper charm.

She ran her finger along the side of the paper charm, and it unravelled, allowing her to open the cabinet.  Inside were two rows of orbs, each one filled with grey mist and labelled with tiny white paper tags. The mist seemed to move, swirling in chaotic patterns, not unlike memories in a Pensieve, though the memory orb charm was a much more recent development, only formalized about thirty years ago. They were called _memory_ orbs, because the original orbs actually did use memories, but nowadays the orbs used a sophisticated audio and visual recording spell. This was an area which had seen intense development, particularly from the Americans, over the last generation; from the articles he had read, they were obsessed with reinventing something called _television_ for the wizarding community. Most recently, they had managed to link the recording spell to allow for instantaneous, one-way transmission to a limited network of other orbs, but they were still extremely expensive and unwieldy. The Tournament must be more important internationally than he had thought.

“We only have a good collection for the past twenty-five years or so, and I’m afraid a lot of them are copies – if you have one of the original orbs, you can use a second orb to record the record, so to speak, but they are never quite as good,” she said apologetically, pulling out three orbs from the collection. “I have here the semi-finals and finals from the last year that AIM won, in the 1970s, and a quarter-final match from the last Tournament, when they lost to NMSC.

“The year they won, they actually used different strategies in the pool phase and the direct elimination phase – they swapped out their key player in their pool phase for their alternate and played a completely different game. In pools, they focused on teamwork. Their strategy started changing in the quarter-final, against Mahoutokoro. I don’t have a copy of it, but they were on the plains battleground, and they summoned a thunderstorm, taking out flying entirely. Then they followed up on their advantage and eliminated all the players in less than thirty minutes. For the semi-final, they were up against Castelbruxo, and, well, you can see for yourself.”

She set the orb in an artfully carved cradle on the coffee table, took out her wand and used it to draw a rune – one of the dreadfully complex Chinese runes, Aldon realized. Whatever she did activated the spell on the orb, which glowed and unfolded on the table – forcing Ron to hurriedly rescue the shortbread. The image stretched out across the coffee table, the colours slightly muted, then rose into a cube, adding depth. It wasn’t the same as a Pensieve memory, where one simply fell into the memory, but it was also _nice_ being able to stay in the warm, welcoming sitting room, with a plate of cookies, rather than being in the pouring rain.

The battleground, this time, was a city. The buildings were low to the ground, stone with tile roofs, cobblestone streets with a slightly pinkish, rosy tinge. If it wasn’t raining, Aldon thought it would be warm, but it was pouring buckets – water was running in rivulets down the streets, and even without being present he could tell that it was chilly.

The AIM team Portkeyed in, all three of their players staggering slightly when they hit the ground, in the centre of a small square. They were three girls, that year, and Aldon winced sympathetically, because they clearly hadn’t anticipated landing in the rain. One of the girls, a brunette with her brown curls pinned out of her face, slipped on her landing and fell onto the soaking cobblestones, swearing. Her teammate, another brunette with slightly darker skin, made a face and pulled her roughly to her feet; their third teammate, a pretty redhead with startling green eyes, pulled out her wand and wordlessly cast a spell to shunt the water off of them.

“Where are they?” the darker brunette asked, skimming the eerily empty city. She pulled out her wand cautiously, looking around.

“Doesn’t matter,” the one who landed on the streets said, uselessly swiping at her bottom to get the excess wet off. She similarly pulled out her wand, skimming the rooftops and streets around them carefully and pacing a small, quick circle. “They’re around here somewhere. Let’s get this over with, I’m freezing. Lily, stop wasting magic! Let us take care of the umbrella spell.”

The redhead shrugged, but cancelled her spell anyway with another wave. “It’s not much magic, anyway. I know how much the song will cost, I’ve practiced it enough.” 

Aldon blinked – her accent was British. It was a little worn, no doubt from living in America, but it was still undeniably British. She must have been a Muggleborn. Red hair, green eyes, British, named Lily, likely in her mid-thirties now … well, it was one _likely_ possibility. He glanced over at Harriett, but she was expressionless, even as her grey eyes were intense on the image.

“Not on a block like this, you haven’t,” the wet one said. She finished pacing out the circle, a small one around them, then activated her spell. To his surprise, it wasn’t a defensive spell – the threads of magic reached into the earth, strengthening it. “We’re good. Let’s start, before they find us. They’re disadvantaged on the city battleground, but we shouldn’t take chances.”

Lily nodded agreeably, turning in a circle herself. She took a couple deep breaths, seemingly mentally preparing herself, then she settled back. Her teammates were pacing careful, defensive circles around her, eyes carefully looking around, casting _Hominem Revelio_ every quarter-circle. Lily frowned in concentration, weaving her wand in a complicated pattern. A wild sound came out of the silence, music like Aldon had never heard before – it was heavy, unearthly, and somehow compelling, and then she opened her mouth and sang.

Her song was an angry song, a song that railed against the world that left her behind. She sang about injustice: about the laws that took her away from her family, that separated her from her best friend. She sang about the inherent _wrongness_ of being forced out of her homeland, about being shoved into a world that both adored her for her power and didn’t want her for her blood all in the same breath. She sang about her rage and her sorrow and her fury, and as she sang, Aldon felt the song come into him, breathe into his bones. Lily was _angry_ , and Aldon was angry with her, and she turned her voice against the earth, against the world that made her what she was and then forced her to live it.

And the earth started shaking.

The other team’s players were appearing, poking their heads over two of the nearby tile roofs, but it was too late. The tremors had started, the earth was rolling, was tearing itself apart under the power of her spell. The curly-haired brunette staggered, pulling back into the protective circle, half-closing her eyes in concentration as she held onto the earth beneath them. Tiles were starting to fall off the roofs, shattering on the cobblestones below. One of the Castelbruxo players slipped, between the shaking and the wetness, and fell two stories to the cold, wet, unstable ground – while there, Lily’s teammate took the opportunity to Stupefy him. Aldon noted that another player Portkeyed into the battleground beside him, checked him over professionally, and signalled a large “X” with her arms before taking him out of the battleground.

The song was still building, and Aldon could see that the Castelbruxo players had grievously erred by climbing onto the roofs. Strategically, it was a good move in the sense that, had things gone well, the height would have given them an advantage. In the rain, though, their strategists should have called off that plan, because the slipperiness of the roofs simply didn’t justify it anymore. However, combined with the fact that the entire battleground, except for the small protective circle around the AIM team, was now rolling in an earthquake, they were slowly but surely being shaken off and thrown to the ground. On the ground, they were easy pickings.

One of the Castelbruxo players tried to retreat, falling backwards, but he was the last one at this point. Having the advantage of being on the only stable piece of land in on the battleground, the darker brunette pulled out a broomstick and took off after him. Even if he was completely unfamiliar with song magic, the pressure on his chest lifted, and he could tell that Lily was winding down her song, sagging slightly with tiredness. Still, the ground, destabilized by both the rain and by the earthquake she had caused, continued shaking and buildings continued to fall.  

It was barely a minute later that a bell sounded.

“Winner: the American Institute of Magic.”

The two remaining girls, Lily and the curly-haired brunette, waited a minute for their teammate to reappear on her broom over the few remaining houses. The ground was still rolling, still shaking intermittently, when they Portkeyed out and the image collapsed back into the small, unassuming grey orb.

Chang didn’t comment, instead picking up a second memory orb and putting it into the cradle. “The final, that year, was against Durmstrang.”

She waved her wand in the same sequence as before, activating the recording spell, and the orb again expanded onto the coffee table. This time, the scene was idyllic – there was a babbling stream in the centre of the scene, with groomed trees waving lightly in the breeze on either size. The AIM team Portkeyed in, landing lightly on a large, flat, rock on one side of the stream, finding their footing easily.

“Looks nice,” the curly-haired brunette commented, looking around. “You can almost forget that Poplovsky stabbed Everton in the gut here.”

“If I never see intestines again, that will be too soon,” Lily gagged. With the sunlight shining off her hair, Aldon could see that she was quite beautiful, and familiar. It was certainly a younger version of Lady Lillian Potter. “Still, this setting is perfect. It’s always easier to encourage the softer emotions when it’s nice out. People are naturally happy in the sun.”

“Everton survived,” their third teammate said, shrugging, looking down the stream. She cocked her head to one side, and Aldon caught the flash of a red stone in her ear. “Matt says they’re about a quarter-mile away, on the other side of the stream, and moving fast. We have to start.”

Lily nodded, turning her head up for one of her teammates to cast a _Sonorus_ charm on her, then the two of them cast deafening charms on themselves. Lily didn’t seem to need any time to prepare herself, this time; her wand moved in a soft pattern, letting the music swell around her, before she started to sing. She started soft, and it was only thirty seconds later that Aldon knew it was a love ballad.

Her voice was light, sweet, alluring. It called, asking for love, asking to be loved as herself. There was a haunting subtext to it, a subtle sadness, and a sense of loss that came underneath her intense desire to be loved. It was a song that went straight to his heart – straight to the parts of him, to everyone, to the part that needed to be needed, and his chest ached. Nor was he the only one affected; a quick glance around the room showed that two of the Weasleys were wearing stunned expressions, and even Ed was leaning forward, compelled even as he didn’t want to be. And in the image, Lily’s eyes were wet as she poured her deepest, most intense desire to be loved into the song.

It was a long time before the Durmstrang players came into view – much longer than a quarter-mile walk should have taken. When they appeared, across the stream from the AIM players, it was obvious why – they were entranced. Two of them were still fighting it, twitching every couple steps, while the third one had given up and was walking, heedless of danger, into the stream. Lily turned to look at them, and for one heartstopping moment, she smiled. Her expression was sweet, soft and kind, even as she focused on them and her green eyes lit with intensity. She took two steps closer to them, reached one hand out to them, and beckoned.

They weren’t just _entranced_ , Aldon realized, a sense of distant horror overriding his desire to go to this memory of a woman and kneel at her feet. They were _enthralled_. Lily was a Siren, stepped out of the old Greek myths, calling sailors to their death. He was just watching a _memory_ and he could still feel the power she must have exerted on the other team.

He wondered briefly why her teammates weren’t Stupefying the other team, though once they walked into the stream, heedless of the danger, he guessed that Stupefying them might have led to drowning, which would be in breach of the rules. The stream, it turned out, was not deep – the water came neck-high, but still the Durmstrang players walked, all three completely lost. When they reached the other side, Lily’s song became a quiet lullaby, her wand movements just minor twitches, singing them to sleep.

As one, they sagged, and fell asleep. And Lily, too, dropped, clearly exhausted by her efforts. A single Healer, wearing a blue armband, popped into existence beside the Durmstrang team, checked their vitals, before standing and gesturing an “X” with his arms, taking all three out of play.

“Winner: the American Institute of Magic,” a loud, commanding voice declared, and it was with wide grins that the two remaining AIM players draped Lily’s arms over their shoulders and Portkeyed away.

The image collapsed, back into the memory orb, and Aldon shook his head subtly to cast off the last of the spell. Not that the song magic should have worked through memory – it would break all the known rules if it did, especially since he wasn’t _living_ the memory, only watching it. The only thing they ought to have been affected by was the music itself, not the magic woven into it. Still, belief was powerful, and it was conceivable that, as long as he _believed_ the spell should have worked on him, his own magic could resonate and mimic the same effect.  

“AIM is famous for that match,” Cho said, her voice subdued. “It was the first time they included a Songmaster into their team. They never did it again, though, so the consensus is that Lily Evans was a rare talent, one they couldn’t replicate in the next years. Not sure what happened to her afterwards, either – she was famous, but she disappeared after she left school. Anyway – the third match is an AIM loss from the last Tournament, so I don’t think it will be as useful. They used a stealth strategy that year.”

Aldon knew perfectly well what had happened to Lily Evans, as did half the room, but Cho was oblivious.  Well, he supposed that while Lady Lillian Potter was known in noble circles, there was no reason why those from more middle-class, if respectable, families would ever have met her or learned the barest details about her. Even if Lord Potter was the current Head of the Auror Office, the Potters were not known for socializing, particularly since the Split. He chanced a glance at Harriett: her expression was still, almost bored. She gave no sign that she might want to answer the unspoken query. Ed glanced at him, but Aldon shook his head, a tiny movement. If Harriett didn’t want to mention it, it was not their place to do it in her stead. And, anyway, Cho was already putting the third orb into the wooden cradle, and the scene was already unfolding. 

Desert, this time – it was a different tournament, a different time, and the recording was from the perspective of NMSC. The recording orb was focused on a dip in the middle of three sand dunes, a red sandstone rock at the centre; the keystone, Aldon realized. It was only a second later that the team from NMSC Portkeyed in. There were two boys and a girl, and they each touched down with barely a stumble, even though the ground was soft, shifting underneath their feet. They looked around warily, shared one business-like look, and slowly stalked off in separate ways. Two of them were pulling out small, hand-sized, sheets of parchment; the last one, the girl, had a fan in her hands.

The images changed, following the players as they each carefully padded around in the dunes. Two of them were clearly searching for something – the other team? AIM’s keystone? The last one, one of the two paper-casters, stopped at a vantage point on one of the nearby dunes, standing guard. The scene was eerily silent, the sand glowing under their feet.

The two hunters stopped every few hundred feet, casting some sort of search spell. Aldon suspected the spell was simply “Point Me”, but he couldn’t be sure as they were each doing it wordlessly, and it was obviously different without a wand. Both of their search patterns were somewhat erratic, changing directions often, so Aldon thought they were tracking their opponents.

The girl was the first to run into an AIM player, narrowing throwing herself out of the way of an attack spell of some kind – it was wordless, but Aldon guessed it was Stupefy. She was back on her feet not even a full second later, turning around to face … nothing. There was no one, nothing behind her, and she turned in a careful circle. Another two spells came out of nowhere, and she whipped her fan in a complicated pattern – Aldon couldn’t tell what she had done, but it was almost as though she grabbed onto one of the spells and _pulled_. It told her something, though, so when she whipped her fan again in another pattern, the barrel-chested AIM player appeared only ten or fifteen feet away from her, farther up on the dune she was on, but Aldon had barely registered his location before he was thrown backwards.

Without the element of surprise, it was readily apparent that the NMSC player was simply a better dueller. She was _fast_ , and the AIM player was immediately put on the back foot, stumbling in the sand as he struggled to defend. He wasn’t bad at duelling, even managing to get a few attack spells out when he was back on his feet, but he was clearly disadvantaged by his lack of familiarity with her casting system – he was wasting energy on shield spells he didn’t need to cast, because he didn’t recognize what her spells were. Aldon didn’t recognize her spells either, but it was evident that she had a wide repertoire.

She got through with some sort of blasting curse aimed at the ground, causing the AIM player to slip on the side of the dune, then landed a cutting curse of some kind. He kept fighting, ignoring the blood spraying lightly onto the sand, his wand moving frantically, but she held him down with a barrage of other spells. He blocked, one after another, but another two spells were through within a minute and he was out. She waited only long enough for him to collapse, before returning to her search patterns. The recording orb stayed on the fallen AIM player, though, and Aldon watched as a Healer declared the player officially out of the match and Portkeyed him out. The image held, another few crucial seconds.

“That was an error,” Cho inserted her hand into the image, pointing out a medium-sized sandstone rock in one corner of the terrain. “NMSC should have ended the game here – their player took out the AIM guard but didn’t identify the keystone. There’s no reason to hold out in direct elimination, it’s just who wins, so she just didn’t see it. She is what they call a fighter – her main job is duelling the other players. But if she, or her strategist, had thought about it at the time, AIM would have known that NMSC would outmatch them head-to-head – there was no reason for the AIM player to attack unless he was protecting the keystone.”

The image changed, focusing on the other, moving, paper-caster. He was frowning, holding up a piece of parchment, repeatedly casting his search spell, but clearly the results weren’t promising. He said something – speaking to his strategist, Aldon assumed – but then he blew out a breath and pulled out a fresh sheet of parchment.

“He’s getting instructions from his strategist on a more precise search spell,” Chang said, off-hand. “It’s not important, but he’s basically going to cast the paper form of the _Hominem Revelio_ spell, which turns out like a map.”

Aldon nodded, turning his eyes back to the screen and leaning forward in interest. Even if he mainly signed up for this adventure because Harriett was in it, he couldn’t help but be intrigued. He had read a bit about other channelling methods, but he only really knew wand casting and runic casting. Paper-casting was, in some ways, similar to runic casting, but from what he could tell, also completely unlike it. The paper-caster in the image pulled out a tiny ink bottle and brush from his pocket, knelt on the ground, and he drew a pattern of runes onto the sheet of paper. He was quick about it, no doubt knowing that he was vulnerable while he did it, and stood up only a few minutes later. He activated the spell on the parchment, imbuing it with a flash of his magic, and Aldon could just see the lines of ink on the parchment come alive. Renewed with determination, the paper-caster moved on, considerably more confident than before.

“Most of the time, paper-casters enter a game with a number of spells prepared ahead of time and partially imbued, so they don’t need to stop and create a spell from scratch,” Cho explained, pointing it out. “It’s rare they’ll need to create a new paper-charm mid-game, but they all carry paper and ink to do it.”

There was a flash of lightning in the distance, and the image suddenly switched to NMSC’s starting position, where the other paper-caster, the guard, was engaging another AIM player in combat. The AIM player had to have been invisible, before – there was no other way that she could have gotten that close to the team’s keystone without being noticed. The lightning must have been a warning spell, and she panicked, throwing an overpowered _Confringo_ at the sandstone. The paper-caster, equally panicked, had just managed to block it, throwing out a piece of parchment which lit up into a shield, then following it with a fire spell that the AIM player hurriedly dodged. They exchanged a flurry of spells for the next five minutes, and seemed to be roughly evenly matched. The end result was sheer dumb luck – the AIM player just missed her timing on a block, and was hit in the chest with a focused lightning spell, knocking her unconscious. Aldon watched as the paper caster walked a wider circle, this time, around the keystone, resetting his warning spell.

The first paper-caster, the one with the map, finally found the final AIM player – or he guessed he had, in any case. He threw an arc of paper charms in one direction, flying unnaturally far on the strength of his magic, and just one of them hit the AIM player. The paper charm, some sort of _Finite Incantatem_ , stripped the Disillusionment away, and almost before the AIM player realized he was visible again, the paper-caster threw lightning at him. His reflexes were fast, dodging out of the way, before returning fire. The paper-caster said something to his strategist, throwing another lightning spell, which burst with a loud clap of thunder. The AIM player dodged it again; he was tall, lithe, and moved with a grace that was almost dancing.

He was a better dueller than the paper-caster, too, Aldon realized quickly. Paper-casting was fast, and since they were partially imbued ahead of time and activated with just a touch, they were also efficient, increasing the number of spells a person could cast in a row. However, the variety of spells he could cast entirely depended on what he had prepared ahead of time. In a combat situation, he couldn’t react on the fly, and the AIM player took ruthless advantage, varying his spells and analysing the pile of spells the paper-caster had available. The paper-caster kept throwing lightning, so Aldon suspected that he wasn’t carrying many other attack spells.

He was caught with some sort of disorientation spell, his paper charm being completely ineffective at blocking it, and stood, frozen, trapped in the spell. Aldon wondered for an instant why he wasn’t casting the counter-curse, before he realized that he _couldn’t_ – he didn’t have one prepared, and he was too disoriented to make one. The AIM player Stunned him with no ceremony.

Unfortunately, the girl from NMSC, the fighter, appeared from over one of the sand-dunes, engaging him in combat before he could cast a Disillusionment Charm and disappear. She had none of the spell restrictions as the paper-caster did, and coldly ignored her teammate, Stunned on the ground, in favour of attack. She must have been called over by the lightning spells, Aldon realized, or a message from her strategist. She was perfectly aware that this was the only AIM player left standing, and she fully intended to end it, fast, which she did savagely with a targeted piercing or stabbing spell, followed by a powerful explosive charm. The AIM player flew backwards, landing hard in the sand. He didn’t get up.

Two AIM Healers Portkeyed in, checking over their teammate. One, a tall, dark-skinned boy, grim-faced, stood up and raised his arms in a large “X”, while his friend continued kneeling, her wand moving in quick, precise movements.

“Winner: The National Magic School of China,” a cool, monotone voice announced, followed by the same in Chinese.

The image collapsed, just as the NMSC player Portkeying out, one hand on her teammate and pulling him out as well.

It was Ronald Weasley who broke the silence first, his voice measured, considering. “That was helpful. The first two were interesting, but you said they never replicated the strategy, so it was useful seeing how a normal game played out. You called the girl who used the fan a _fighter_?”

“Yes,” Cho nodded. “NMSC is the largest magical school, with over three thousand students, and they’re the only one that plays the game internally outside Tournament years. They classify all players as either fighters, defenders, or rounders. Fighters are offensive – they look for the other team’s keystone or actively attack other players. Defenders usually protect the keystone, and rounders can do both. Only NMSC categorizes players like this, though.”

Ron waved his hand dismissively. “That’s probably because, since they play it regularly, they’ve thought the most about the common strategies. We should adopt the terminology to describe the game tactics generally. In this game, since AIM was aiming for a stealth strategy, they didn’t put any fighters on their team. Is that usual?”

Cho shrugged, but there was an excited gleam in her eye. “With AIM, one can never be sure, and I haven’t done a specific study of how the major teams break down, but offhand I think they prefer defenders and rounders over fighters – I can’t think of a single fighter on their team in the last five cycles.”

“So with our team, I know already that Angelina is a fighter, and Rigel is more of a defender – don’t look at me like that, Rigel, I see you in Duelling. You’re fantastic at taking advantage of others’ attacks on you and drawing attacks, but not so great at initiating them. Diggory is probably a rounder…” Ron trailed off, thinking it over. “Do we know what the battlegrounds are, this year?”

“City, Lake, Forest, Rock,” Alex supplied helpfully, shuffling through the back pages of their pamphlet. “Match listings in the back – Hogwarts plays AIM the first weekend of February on Forest, while Patagonia and ICW play on Lake.”

“But we won’t know what they actually look like until we’re in-game,” Cho added.

“Maybe we should discuss this separately?” Diggory interrupted, gesturing delicately at the others. While Harriett, Alex, and Johnston were listening intently, the rest were otherwise occupied. The Weasley Twins were quietly exchanging looks and hand movements which Aldon suspected they had long since developed into a sign language, Ed and the other two Healers were looking politely bored, and Susan Bones was nose-deep in the Tournament Regulations. “It’s late. We should finalize our next steps and we can meet again at Hogwarts. Professor Dumbledore is turning one of the empty classrooms into a meeting room for us.”

There was a murmur of agreement, Aldon and Ed among them, and Stark hid a yawn. The Healers would brush up on their trauma and first aid skills, including lightning treatments. Chang agreed to review her collection of memory orbs, taking notes on other teams’ strategies generally, and Ron, as the chess master, would join her and work on Hogwarts’ strategy. The Twins grinned, identical expressions of menace, and said they would start _inventing_. The players would be working on their duelling and physical fitness. Bones agreed to have the Tournament Regulations reviewed before returning to Hogwarts.

As for Aldon himself, he would be researching different channelling methods. Most of their pool did use wand magic, but it was by no means a guarantee. Even wand users often crossed the lines into wandless magic – what else were Runes, or Potions, or Herbology? Still, one major advantage that non-wand-users had was simply that it was unfamiliar – an unfamiliar attack was that much more likely to succeed. It was, overall, extremely interesting, and even if Aldon wouldn’t have chosen to put himself forward if not for a certain Harriett Potter’s involvement, he couldn’t say he regretted it in the least.

XXX

The night before the Gala, Aldon joined his parents for dinner. Whatever went unsaid, it was still an expectation that, while he was at home, they had dinner together several times a week. Usually the dinners were peppered with light conversation, a veil over the distance that had grown between them. His parents often discussed business, and he listened; sometimes he was asked about school, and he would reply vaguely, meaninglessly. He largely ignored his specific interests, and they never asked. They never pushed.

They never cared.

So, it was a surprise when his father turned to him, over dessert, and quite bluntly asked him whether he was _interested_ in anyone.

“Excuse me?” Aldon replied, politely _not_ spraying his lemon panna cotta across the table.

Lord Evan Rosier sighed, and glanced at Aldon’s mother. His non-biological mother, his brain supplied helpfully. “Your mother and I were discussing, recently. You are now of age, and you know that, in our social class, it is about time for us to begin arranging meetings for you with prospective spouses.”

“But we don’t want to pressure you, Aldon,” Lady Eveline Rosier added gently. “You need to be seen on the marriage market, so to speak, but there’s no need to enter into an arrangement right away. At this point, we just need to be seen making inquiries on your behalf.”

Aldon grimaced, even as he knew it was true. He had seen girls watching him and twittering amongst themselves at the last Gala, and while none would dare approach him, he knew they talked. The Rosiers were noble, even if it was only a minor Book of Copper nobility, Sacred Twenty-Eight in terms of purity (hah), and extremely wealthy. He was an excellent pick for respectable, middle-class families trying to climb the social ladder, as well as for noble families needing to refuel their family coffers. As a supposed, Sacred Twenty-Eight pureblood, too, he was also generally considered a good choice for families aiming to firm up their pureblood credentials, which, in this political climate, most families were. Certainly, his blood-status posed no barrier. What a joke.

Suddenly, he was struck by wild inspiration.

He hesitated artfully, glancing down and to the right, as if he were embarrassed by what he was about to admit, even as he was internally spinning in glee. “Well, I have to admit that I was _intrigued_ , at last year’s Gala, by, well…” he threw in a pause, taking a breath or two, looking at his plate, and lowered his voice. “By Harriett Potter.”

“ _Heiress_ Potter?” His father inquired. To his credit, he didn’t sound dismissive, and when he glanced up, he saw that his mother, too, had a considering look on her face.

“Yes,” Aldon replied, warming to the topic, as if he was encouraged by his parents’ responses, even if he felt no such thing. “I met her, at the last Gala. We spoke at some length. She is training as a Healer at the American Institute of Magic, and of course I am friends with her cousin Rigel. She has,” he paused, searching for the right words. “The most _stunning_ green eyes.”

“I have heard that she is engaged to her cousin, Arcturus Black,” his mother murmured, casting her father a look. “Though, from all accounts, it is not a serious engagement. Likely protection in case the legislation goes through, since she is a halfblood.”

“That shouldn’t be an issue,” his father replied, equally quietly, as though Aldon weren’t there. “Should the legislation pass, were she married to Aldon, she would have the status of a pureblood anyway. The House of Potter is old – Book of Gold. And they are wealthy. It would be a good match. The Lord Potter, though, is unlikely to be receptive…”

“I know she is a half-blood, but our children would be pureblooded by definition,” Aldon added, pretending as though he hadn’t heard their quiet conversation. “And since Lord and Lady Potter are known to be powerful, _she_ is likely magically powerful.”

“I’ll speak to Lord Potter, considering the existing engagement,” his father said eventually. “You should feel free to pursue her informally, however; since she is formally engaged, she would need to be persuaded, _informally_ , to break it.”

Aldon smirked. Harriett, or Rigel, would be _annoyed_ , to put it lightly, but it really was for her benefit, he told himself altruistically. She was a half-blood, whatever the potential legislation said, and having it be _quietly_ known that the popular Rosier Heir had his eyes on her would make those around her think twice. And when he considered the scope of what he _could_ do, as one of her informal suitors, that was merely twice the fun. And if it was also provided a convenient discouragement for his own potential suitors, that was all the better. 

XXX

Compared to the previous years’ Galas, Bulstrode House was stark. There was no gold gilt this year, no burgundy velvet drapes, no giant chandelier. Bulstrode House was drawn in tight, straight lines and open spaces, decorated in black and greys. The whole feeling of the house was stern, austere, the coldest form of nobility, for all that the Bulstrodes were _not_ noble. They were affiliated with the SOW Party, they were wealthy, but they were primarily known for their work in international affairs.

Something was changing, Aldon realized, fixing his collar as he followed his parents through the reception line. Between the Tournament and having the SOW Party Gala hosted by the Bulstrodes, at the house of Sir Philip Bulstrode, the British ambassador to the ICW, Lord Riddle was trying to open the borders. Was it that forty years of sanctions were finally pressing on Wizarding Britain’s economy? Or was it something else?

He didn’t have enough information to speculate, though he knew for a fact that the sanctions did work. The Rosiers’ once-vaunted business network, stretching across Wizarding America, Australia, Canada, and Western Europe, had slowly withered away over the last four decades. Even the governments in eastern Europe, less respectful of the ICW and its rules, were hesitant to trade. That was why so much of their portfolio had shifted domestically, though the few international trade connections they still had were worth significantly more. On the other hand, forty years was a long time to hold out, and there was no apparent reason why this should happen now. As far as he knew, Wizarding Britain’s economy was _strained,_ but it was not at the breaking point.

Still, the very fact that it was at Bulstrode House meant that, like with the Parkinsons last year, more families were present, including Light families. He spotted the Potters almost immediately after finishing the reception line, Lady Potter’s brilliant red hair standing out against the Bulstrodes’ minimalistic décor, and fought the shiver that crested his shoulders remembering the sight of her, singing, enthralling men to sleep. Harriett was there, too, though he couldn’t see her face – as soon as he looked at the Potter family, he felt the telltale buzz in his core that told him that she was there. Lord Sirius Black, too, was standing with them with Arcturus Black, a pristine copy of Rigel Black, though he was smiling openly, laughing at something his father had said. He, too, buzzed to Aldon’s core.

“Are you all right, there, Aldon?” Ed asked, appearing beside him.

Aldon turned, admiring his friend briefly. Ed was looking smart in navy blue robes with a high collar, tailored to emphasize his height. The cloth was a light wool, it looked like, hanging in unusually pristine lines – weighted hems, he assumed. “Edmund. I’m fine, as well as can be expected. I’ve picked up a number of books on international casting methods – it’s interesting reading. How goes the wedding planning?”

Ed and Alice would be married in June, just after Ed’s graduation from Hogwarts, and while most of the coordination was being handled by Alice or through owl post, there were things that Ed needed to be present for. Meal tastings. Robe fittings, which Aldon, as best man, had been pulled into a few days ago. Contract negotiations – the Selwyns wanted the wedding at their Estate, but the Rookwoods were of the view that the Selwyn ballroom was too outdated, leading to some offense. Then there were issues involving the Selwyn title, on whether Ed should change his name to Selwyn rather than Alice since he wasn’t noble, and she was, or whether they would adopt the Rookwood name.

Ed nodded, and if Aldon didn’t know him quite so well, he wouldn’t have picked up on the tired, but happy glimmer in his dark brown eyes. “Thank you for your research, the other day. When I raised that the Potters legally still held the Peverell title, the Selwyns folded. Alice will take the Rookwood name, and legally we’ll hold the Selwyn title. The engagement was formally announced before the holiday, so this is our first formal appearance together as a united family.”

“Glad to hear it,” Aldon smiled briefly, a genuine smile. “I assume you’re telling me this so you can disappear in good conscience for the rest of the evening?”

Ed tilted his head in rueful acknowledgement. “You know me too well.”

“Go, go,” Aldon waved his hand. “If you don’t, Alice will come looking for _me_. And I need to find a drink, anyway – I can’t _possibly_ do a Gala without a drink in hand.”

“Don’t overindulge, Aldon,” Ed shot him a warning look, before disappearing into the crowd. Aldon rolled his shoulders lightly – the new formal robes he had this year were a royal blue, accented with gold, which made his eyes pop, but the style was somewhat constricting across his shoulders. His mother tended, if anything, to overemphasize Aldon’s slim form when she was ordering new robes.

He found the refreshments easily, lined along one side of the expansive ballroom. It had been expanded for the event, Aldon realized, but it worked well in Bulstrode House since the lines of the building were so unforgiving. It was only the stairs, on either end of the room leading to the second-floor balcony, lining the entirely circumference of the ballroom, that revealed the trick, each step having been disproportionately stretched and having a decidedly odd footprint.

There were no serving-elves at this Gala; rather, the Bulstrodes had hired a human entertainment company to manage serving. Aldon accepted a glass of red wine with thanks from a bored looking blonde witch, who had several levitation spells on the go as she mixed spirits for other guests, before retreating to wander through the crowds, keeping an eye out for people he knew.

Harriett had found a friend. Aldon didn’t recognize the tall, brown-haired, hazel-eyed boy. Aldon eased himself carefully through the crowd, moving to a position several feet closer, where he could see him in more detail. He wasn’t a _boy_ , Aldon realized quickly; he was a man, though a young one. Perhaps about twenty. He didn’t look like a pureblood, either. His nose was too large, and crooked, as though it had been broken and improperly set at least once before. His formal robes were bright green, the shade of grass; not brand new, but also not too worn. He didn’t come from a wealthy family, obviously, but he must come from a respectable one if he were at the SOW Party Gala. Aldon frowned; he didn’t recognize him, which he should have if the man was associating with Harriett.

Even more concerning, though, were their expressions. The man was clearly taken with Harriett, deeply taken. His eyes were soft, intent, when he looked at her, as if she were the only person in the room, and a warm smile was playing about his lips. He had one of her hands, too, held lightly in both of his hands, and he stood over her almost protectively, a bold statement to all who were near that Harriett was his.

And Harriett, stunning in sea-green formal robes the exact shade of her eyes, was _smiling back_. She laughed, pulling her hand back casually from him, and there was no hesitation, no reticence, nothing held back in that smile, in that laugh. She was beaming at the unknown man like she knew him, like she was delighted to have run into him here, a little as though he hung the moon. There was light in her eyes when she looked at him, and Aldon could hardly help but scowl, downing his glass of wine. Who was he?

Perhaps more importantly, where was Arcturus? As Harriett’s formal betrothed, surely he had something to say about this state of affairs?

He stalked through the crowd once more, searching for a familiar face, focusing, too, on finding a familiar buzz through his core. He took a second glass of wine when he passed the refreshments table next, which he slipped more slowly while looking. He found Arcturus Black, just as the dancing was about to open. He was standing in a group with his supposed friends, laughing lightly, Rigel’s laugh, at something one of them had said.

“Rigel,” Aldon said, pushing himself into the circle of fourth-years and placing a hand on Arcturus’ shoulder. Harriett would have tensed, slightly, but Arcturus had no such reaction. He nodded to the others. “Oh, hello, Pansy. Malfoy, Zabini, Nott.”

“Rosier,” Arcturus greeted him, inclining his head slightly in welcome as he made space in their circle, and Aldon knew immediately that something was different. Wrong.

No, wait. It was _right_.

His voice didn’t buzz. Arcturus, as an actual male, had no need to artificially lower his voice as Harriett did; his voice was lowering itself naturally and Harriett’s was only a copy. Because this voice was his true voice, it didn’t read as a lie in his core. That was useful, and Aldon just prevented a wicked smile from spreading across his face. It would be _useful_ to know when Harriett was playing Rigel, and when Arcturus was playing Rigel.

“I’m sorry to leave so quickly, especially since you’ve just arrived, Rosier,” Zabini interrupted, casting a meaningful glance at the dance floor, “but the dancing is about to start. I wouldn’t like to leave Hannah searching for me.”

“You’re right,” Nott said, throwing him a garish wink. “We had better find our partners. I’ve been pulled by one of my cousins, again – guess I’m old enough to use as a shield! I’ll see you later?”

Aldon nodded at the two of them, as they disappeared into the crowds, searching for their partners. He cast an inquiring glance at Pansy, who simply glanced over at Malfoy without a change of expression, and Aldon realized that the two Silver Snakes would be opening the dancing together. He raised an eyebrow, but didn’t comment, taking a small sip from his wine glass, instead. He had gotten the white, this time. It was lighter, less heady.

“How was your holiday, Aldon?” Pansy asked, her voice light and curious. “You were at the Tournament meeting, weren’t you? Rigel has been so close-mouthed about it; surely you’ll be more forthcoming?”

Aldon made himself relax. He could make small talk for the next few minutes, before they had to disappear for the dance. His demands could keep. “There’s little news of interest, Pansy,” he replied lightly, “and it will be more interesting for you to simply watch the matches. Honestly, our meeting a few days ago was dull; we only learned the rules of the game, read over the books that the ICW sent us, and so on.”

Pansy sighed prettily. “That’s what Rigel said, too,” she flicked her eyes to her friend, but her tone was affectionate. “I suppose we’ll just have to wait. Still, can’t you at least tell us who we’re playing first?”

Aldon laughed, playing along, eyes flicking to Arcturus. He hadn’t been at the meeting, though he was sure that Harriett would have given him a briefing. He wondered vaguely how much detail Harriett had gone into – they hadn’t discussed specific strategies, but it was still an advantage she could have given him. Then again, Harriett as Rigel would likely have been closed-mouthed about the meeting anyway, so maybe she had kept it to the basics. “I suppose, Rigel, that we can tell them that much, at least?”

Arcturus shrugged diffidently. “I suppose it does no harm. Our first match is the first weekend of February, against AIM.”

It was only because Aldon was paying attention that he caught it. Arcturus’ accent, too, was subtly different from Harriett’s. The backbone of his accent was entirely upper-class, the same accent as he and Pansy and Malfoy shared, though he enunciated his words better.

Malfoy snorted. “We’ll wipe the floor with them.” There was barely a flicker in Arcturus’ expression, but Malfoy flinched slightly, clearly catching some feeling from him. “Sorry, Rye. You said Harry was on their team, right? As a Healer.”

“Yes, that’s right,” Arcturus replied, keeping his voice coolly neutral, even as Aldon suspected he was quite a bit more offended than Harriett would have been. Harriett was used to these comments, and she didn’t go to AIM; Arcturus wasn’t, and he did. “And we shouldn’t underestimate our opponents. AIM could be quite a challenge.”

Malfoy smiled at his friend, skeptical though it was. “I’m sure. Sorry to leave you here, but Pansy and I have to get on the dance floor – the dancing is about to open.”

“Don’t mind me,” Arcturus replied, waving them off. “I’ll catch up with you later.”

There was an awkward pause, while Aldon simply stood and looked the Black Heir over. He could be excused for the moment, he thought; it was his first meeting with the true Black Heir, after all. Arcturus was identical to Rigel, which only made their slight differences more obvious. He fidgeted more – small twitches in his fingers, glances around the ballroom, shifts of his weight from foot to foot. His posture was straighter, too, than Rigel’s, or maybe it was the lack of twelve textbooks slung across his back. His bearing, too, was somehow more regal than Rigel’s, than Harriett’s.

"You were looking for me,” Arcturus reminded him, eyebrow raised. “What is it, Rosier?”

Aldon leaned back, a casual movement, letting a small half-smile play about his face as he took another sip of his wine. “I’m sure I’ve told you to call me Aldon a dozen times if I’ve told you once,” he said, carefully making his voice light, inquiring, with just a hint of offense. It was a bit of a gamble, or perhaps a bit of a test; no doubt Arcturus and Harriett were close, to have exchanged places successfully, but there were things that one had to have lived to know. “Or have you forgotten?”

He caught the briefest flash of panic in Arcturus’ grey eyes, and kept the smirk of amusement off his face. “Aldon,” Arcturus corrected himself, shrugging, his voice purposely even. “Force of habit, I suppose. You’re not dancing? I’m surprised.”

“I rarely dance at these things, Rigel, you know that.” He cast a pointed look over the dance floor. It was the first dance: the dance of couples, or potential couples. It was the dance where people signalled their interest in one another, announced new ties to Society, demonstrated solidarity with their allies. He narrowed his eyes when, with no surprise, he saw Harriett being spun around the dance floor by the unknown man. She was still smiling, still laughing, and it was with effort that he kept his hands loose, casual. “I was curious about who Miss Potter was dancing with, tonight. I don’t recognize him.”

Arcturus looked over, and his expression didn’t change. Aldon thought he was pushing it, a bit; he and Harriett, as Rigel, were not so close as he was playing it, but Arcturus would not know that. Arcturus was clearly hesitant, but as the silence passed, and he shifted, Aldon knew he could outwait him. Arcturus Black was not so patient as Harriett Potter, it seemed.

“That would be Lionel Hurst – he’s the son of the Aldermaster of the Potions Guild,” Arcturus offered reluctantly. “Harry met him at an apothecary, or something like that. They are good friends.”

A true answer. Arcturus was more earnest than he was careful, Aldon thought, even if he could mimic Harriett’s mannerisms.

“More than friends?” Aldon supplied.

“Not at all.” He was lying, at least partially, and Aldon knew it.

Aldon breathed in deeply, letting the silence fill the moment, before picking his next words carefully. In a good conversational dance, the silences were every bit as important as what was said. “I would have thought _you_ would be dancing the first dance with her, since you are betrothed.”

Arcturus shrugged slightly. “Our contract doesn’t require exclusivity.”

“And yet you’re unconcerned,” Aldon mused openly, fiddling slightly with the stem of his wine glass. It was more than three quarters empty, but enough time had passed – he still kept his head, for now. “I wonder if you would be so unconcerned to learn that your betrothal contract is largely considered to be a shield for Miss Potter’s protection.”

Arcturus’ face didn’t change, but the silence stretched. Aldon chanced a look at him – his was studying the dance floor, and his breath was even, but Aldon suspected he was thinking fast about how he, or Rigel, should respond to the bald challenge. Aldon, too, was curious – Harriett, as Rigel, would staunchly deny it. She had denied it, indirectly, before.

“So what it if it were?” Arcturus asked finally, turning to face him directly, a sharp look in his grey eyes, which somehow looked more natural on him than they did on Harriett. “If Harry needs to use my name as a shield, then I’m happy for her to do it. She has it hard enough; anything I can do to smooth her path, I’ll do it, no questions asked.”

Aldon blinked, taken aback at the glimpse of the true Arcturus Black shining through Rigel’s persona. It was nothing that Harriett’s Rigel would have ever said, even if she thought it, and her Rigel would never have openly challenged him as he did. Despite himself, Aldon had to smile; he couldn’t help but _like_ Arcturus, or what he had seen of him thus far. Here was a person who understood, at least somewhat, what Harriett put herself through and did what he could to protect her from it – from America, no less. He could respect that.

“So the engagement _isn’t_ serious,” Aldon replied, his smile turning just a tad darker. “And that means Miss Potter is still considering suitors, is that right?”

Arcturus didn’t reply, turning back to look over the crowd of whirling couples on the dance floor. Aldon spotted Ed and Alice easily, on the far edge of the floor. He took a step closer to Arcturus – close enough that those around them wouldn’t hear, but not so close that it could be considered a threat, or worse, a proposition.

“So surely you might put in a good word for me with Miss Potter? We are such good friends, after all.”

Arcturus spun around, taking a step back in his surprise. “What do you mean by that, Rosier?”

Aldon didn’t bother to try to correct him, this time. Harriett would have said the same, anyway – she _would_ say the same, later. “I met her, at the last Gala. She left a strong impression. Stunning eyes. I was – I am – quite intrigued. And it would be good to give her some options – especially since your betrothal is, as you say, not serious.”

Arcturus stared at him, opening and closing his mouth a few times in a strange parody of a fish as he considered what to say. Aldon looked back on the dance floor – the second set was starting, the sounds of a Viennese waltz drifting through the air. Harriett was still with Hurst, and it looked like they would be continuing. He watched them, a few minutes, allowing Arcturus to gather his thoughts.

“Harry knows her own mind,” he said finally, simply, his eyes flint.

“I’m counting on it,” Aldon murmured, draining the last dregs of his wine. He caught sight of his father, across the ball room, making his way towards Lord Potter. “If you’ll excuse me – I have remembered something I must do.”

Arcturus didn’t dignify him with a proper farewell, but Aldon supposed that he warranted that. Harriett would be seething later, he had no doubt, but there was little she could do as _Rigel_ when _Rigel_ had practically already conceded the point. He would be repeating Arcturus’ own words back at her if she even tried.

The distance between him and Lord Potter seemed much closer than it actually was, or maybe Aldon was just moving slower than he thought he would be able to. He wouldn’t say that he was _struggling_ with his coordination, but he had had two glasses of wine over the last hour, and while he wasn’t even what he would consider _tipsy_ , neither was he entirely stable. He grimly focused on walking straight, with an even stride.

By the time his father reached Lord Potter and had pulled him aside for a private conversation, Aldon had a straight line of vision with both them and with the dance floor, conveniently centred in the room. He could still see Harriett and Hurst spinning their way through the second set, and Aldon glared at them momentarily before turning his focus back on his father. He couldn’t hear what was said – he was still too far away – but at least he had a good view.

His father must have opened the conversation with some small talk of some kind or another, because Lord Potter was looking bemused, slightly suspicious, but not offended. Well, of course – the Rosiers had not historically had any ties with the Potters. Before the current political state, the Potters, as a wealthy, pureblood, Book of Gold noble family, would likely not have considered the Rosiers, upstart nobility, seriously. Even James Potter, at school, had gravitated first towards Sirius Black, another Book of Gold pureblood from a wealthy family. Today, however, with a halfblood Heiress, the landscape was very different.

Aldon wished he knew what they were saying. He was too far away to cast anything without being noticed, and there was just too much interference for the low-key runic charms that he would have preferred using anyway. He saw Lord Potter, easily recognizable from pictures in the _Prophet_ , reply to something his father had said, and he watched his father turn on the charm, turning the conversation to something easy, something relaxing, something that would ease Potter’s unspoken suspicions. Something about the Ministry, or the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, perhaps? No, that was probably too stressful. Business? Unlikely, the Potters had never been a business family. Family? No, absolutely not – his father would start with family when he was turning the conversation to the proposal itself. They had so little in common, Aldon figured they were probably talking about the Gala itself.

Father was good at charm, Aldon thought clinically, watching as Lord Potter slowly relaxed, his face becoming politely engaged as he waited for Evan Rosier to get to the point. The Rosiers had so little to do with the Potters, of course there was an ulterior motive. Lord Potter was showing a willingness to hear his father out, though, which was good.

Aldon knew the second that his father turned the conversation to the Potter family, first because Lord Potter’s face had lit up, but the expression was replaced by a heavy scowl within seconds. The next words, Aldon could tell, were heated, though his father seemed to maintain his calm, making several points. At one point, his father glanced around and, spotting him, pointed him out to Lord Potter.

Aldon quickly turned to face the dance floor, his eyes tracking immediately onto Harriett Potter as he carefully composed his face. He softened his eyes, adopting a wistful expression, throwing in a hint of jealousy and a fair amount of longing into his body posture. He made himself lean forward just slightly, as if against his will, leaning in the direction of the dance floor. He held the position for a minute, or so, before daring to look over at his father and Lord Potter again.

His father was patting Lord Potter on the arm, saying something that looked like _,_ “Think about it,” before turning and walking away.

Well, he supposed that had gone about as well as could have been expected. He turned, navigating the crush of people back to the refreshments table, picking up a third glass of wine. It was regular wine, not fairy wine, and if he nursed it slowly, he would be pleasantly tipsy and not embarrassingly drunk, and he needed a bit of tipsiness to negotiate the rest of the evening, he thought. The refreshments table was crowded, though, and he was waylaid by Lucian and Adrian for a short conversation on the way there, so it was well into the third set by the time he looked again at the dance floor.

Harriett was still dancing with Hurst, he saw with little surprise, frowning. It was, frankly, worrying; if Black had no intention of acting on the betrothal, and he clearly didn’t, then Harriett should really be playing the field. Going to AIM as she supposedly did, she had no real opportunity other than these Galas to meet potential suitors, so she should have been making the most of it. Instead, she was occupied for nearly half the dancing with one partner: one likely halfblooded, middle-class, partner. He sipped his wine – white, again – considering what, if anything, he should do.

He would like to dance with her, he admitted somewhat morosely to himself. Or talk to her. Or anything. Even if he could talk to her as Rigel anytime, it wasn’t the same – he wouldn’t get to look into her sea-green eyes, he wouldn’t hear her openly teasing him. She was so guarded, as Rigel, every other sentence out of her mouth a lie that sparked through his core. As Harriett, without needing to pretend, she was different. She smiled, she laughed with a genuineness that he could feel, a warmth that just wasn’t present when she was Rigel. There was too much in the way when Harriett was Rigel.

It was only when he lifted his glass for the second sip of wine when he saw him, across the dance floor, similarly alone with a glass of wine. Caelum Lestrange was gripping his glass, with a pressure that would break the delicate stem if it wasn’t spelled to be unbreakable, glaring at Harriett and Hurst on the dance floor. His cousin – second-cousin, really – was scowling openly, a rude expression at an event like this, and when the third set ended, he stalked onto the floor, rudely intercepting Harriett for the fourth set. There were clearly harsh words said, between him and Hurst, but the music started, and Harriett was whisked away, an expression of righteous indignation on her delicate face.

Aldon watched them, the fourth set. They were arguing through half the set, and a cold silence enveloped them for the other half. Harriett was not a very good dancer, he saw – she missed steps frequently, stepping on Lestrange’s feet several times. As the lead, he was setting a no-nonsense pace; Hurst, as the better dancer previously, must have been compensating for her. That must have been why she had so stringently avoided dancing in previous years, going so far as to arrange for Ed to take her place in dancing with Pansy that first Gala, exactly two years ago. But Arcturus was a perfectly acceptable dancer, because he had danced several sets with her friends last year.

Indeed, at the end of the fourth set, Arcturus was waiting, catching her the same moment that Hurst went to do the same. He said something, a razor-edged smile on his face, and spun her back onto the dance floor. By the surprised expressions on both Lestrange and Hurst’s faces, and the way they both immediately headed for the refreshments table, Aldon suspected he had told them about the engagement. Or, at least, selective facts about the engagement.

Arcturus was a much better dancer than Harriett, Aldon realized, seeing them side by side. She made fewer mistakes with him, mainly because he was adaptive with his pace, making it easier for her to follow him. However, neither did she look as graceful beside him as she did with Hurst – she was better at reading Hurst’s cues. He pursed his lips slightly in discontent. What was the nature of their relationship? Arcturus had said they were more than friends (or rather, he had denied it outright, but his denial was a lie), but surely …

He didn’t like where this train of thought was leading him, and instead he set his mostly-full glass of wine down on a convenient side table, weaving a small ward around it. The fifth dance was a schottische, and Aldon tried calculating where they would end up at the end of the dance. It was usually possible, in general terms, but for some reason the logic slipped out of his mind as he thought about it. He sighed, resigned to doing this the old-fashioned way, and simply made his way to the edge of the dance floor closest to them. As the schottische continued, he followed around the edges of the circle. He moved slowly, but directly, dissuading anyone from making small talk with him with dismissive glares. No one along this edge of the ballroom was worth his attention, anyway.

The schottische ended, and Aldon was there.

“If I may?” he asked politely, his tone just daring Arcturus to argue with him.

“Rosier,” he replied coolly, tilting his head in acknowledgement, his eyebrows furrowed slightly in warning. He glanced at Harriett, his grey eyes communicating something to her, and she sighed. They were exactly equal in height, nearly identical but for eye colour and a few other, smaller details. His jaw was more square, his face slightly more masculine, but Aldon could only tell because they were side by side. “I do believe that would be up to Harry.”

Aldon turned to Harriett, looking into those glittering sea-green eyes, feeling a sharp pang in his chest. It had been so _long_ since he had seen her true eye colour, he had forgotten how striking they were. All his imaginings of them, talking to her as Rigel, did them no justice. They were compelling, just like her, suiting her so much better than the ugly grey that she wore at school.

Harriett looked distinctly unimpressed by the male antics around her, her expression cool as she glanced at him. Arcturus, too, wasn’t leaving – one look, and Aldon knew he wouldn’t leave until Harriett had either agreed to dance with him or she had rejected him. And if she rejected him, well, that warning look told him that Arcturus planned on dismissing him, somehow. He’d find another way, but honestly, it would be simpler if Harriett just agreed.

“Miss Potter,” he bowed, a thirty-degree bow of social equals, of one pureblood heir to another – or a bow of a halfblood heir to another. He saw a glint of something like approval in Arcturus’ steely grey eyes at the gesture, and carefully kept the smirk off his face; no doubt Arcturus believed him to be paying his cousin unusual respect, for a pureblood to a halfblood.

He reminded himself sternly that he didn’t know about the ruse, he hadn’t seen Harriett Potter in a year, that this was a once in a year opportunity for someone of his circle and someone of hers, and chose his next words carefully. “I am glad that you were able to come to the Gala. I do hope you remember me fondly, and I regret that, this time, I am one of those people pretending not to be drunk.”

She stared at him for a moment, then snorted in laughter. It was restrained, but it was a balm, light and airy and genuine. The small smile on her face, too, was real, and Aldon found himself relaxing. “You hide it well,” she sighed, her sea-green eyes resigned. “Aldon.”

It was a purposeful use of his given name; she was probably using it to distinguish herself from _Rigel_ , who generally preferred to refer to him by surname. Even knowing that, however, some part of Aldon softened to hear it, and he smiled, tilting his head down at her.

“Thank you,” he replied, taking her hand. She didn’t pull away, which was a good sign. Another glance at Arcturus – his face was impassive. “Might I have this dance? You refused me one last year, and left me quite bereft.”

She glanced over at Arcturus, and there was some unspoken communication between them, and Harriett sighed again. “I am not a good dancer,” she demurred, even as Arcturus withdrew. That, more than anything else, told him that she had accepted, and he wasted no time sweeping her onto the dance floor in the quickstep.

Harriett was not a good dancer. It wasn’t that she didn’t move with grace, because she did, and Aldon had seen her in Duelling Club often enough. Perhaps it was the wrong sort of grace; duelling required a certain linearity of movement that was absent in dance, replaced entirely by circles. The quickstep was challenging, faster than the waltz – in his current state of inebriation, he wasn’t quite as attuned to the cues he needed to provide to her, and she trod on his feet more than once.

Their silence was awkward, with none of the friendly camaraderie of the previous year. She was aloof, stand-off-ish, her brows furrowed in concentration and staring anywhere but him. It was obvious that both Lestrange and Arcturus must have told her that she could not spend the entire Gala with one person who was not her fiancé, not without sending an untoward message to Society. He didn’t think Harriett would care, frankly; this was a woman who had committed blood identity theft to come to Hogwarts. At that same time, however, standing out in such a manner was drawing unusual attention, and Harriett, as Rigel, had never liked drawing unusual attention.

“I have a confession to make,” he murmured into her ear. She wasn’t tall, but then again, neither was he. She stood about half a head shorter than him, and her ear was in easy distance. “I was drunk last year, too. I usually am, at these events.”

There was a pause, and Aldon wondered if she was remembering the very first time they had met at a Gala, exactly two years ago, when he didn’t yet know about the ruse. He had been very drunk that night. Fairy wine was much stronger, and he hadn’t yet known his limits quite as well as he knew them now. She had asked him, then, why; and he had told her about hating his parents. It was only two years, and yet it felt so long ago.

But that was something he had told _Rigel_ , not _Harriett_.

“Why?” she asked, her voice low and musical. She glanced up at him, her green eyes betraying nothing but simple curiosity. She was good – but then, she had to be. “Surely you know your limits. Is drinking so enjoyable?”

He let a quick, dark smile flash across his face.  It had been two years – so much could change in two years. So much could be learned in two years.

“Just look around you,” he replied, keeping his voice low, whispering directly in her ear. “Look at us. Look at our Society. You stand here, a halfblood, at the SOW Party Gala, the annual fundraiser for a pureblood supremacist party, because pureblood supremacy has so infused our Society that you have no choice. You’re fourteen, and you’re engaged to your cousin because with Marriage Law on the table, you have no choice. Over there, you see my best friend, Edmund Rookwood, and his fiancé, Alesana Selwyn. They’re getting married just after he graduates this June, because her family is impoverished nobility, and his family isn’t noble at all, and they have no choice either. We stand in the home of Sir Philip Bulstrode, Wizarding Britain’s ambassador to the International Confederation of Wizards, an organization which stands vehemently against our government. He is not noble – the Bulstrodes are not noble. He has no voice in our government, but every year, he goes to the ICW and defends it, because he has no choice.”

His voice was becoming even quieter, in his anger, and he took the time to make sure his face was blank of any hint of discontent. He didn’t know about the ruse, he reminded himself. And Harriett went to school abroad. “You should know, more than anyone here. They don’t marry at seventeen, in America, do they? Take education, too: they say that Hogwarts provides the best general education of all wizarding schools, but have you ever compared your curriculum with Rigel’s? Have you ever seen what we’re _missing_ , what’s been _censored_ , at Hogwarts? And in research: except in Potions, Wizarding Britain hasn’t produced any major research breakthroughs in the past half-century, and the only reason we still have strong potioneers is that the Potions Guild, being financially self-sufficient, doesn’t bow to the whims of politics. At the Rosier Investment Trust, and other companies like ours, we have little choice but to hire from abroad because Hogwarts graduates no longer have the grounding they need to do some of our work. And the Fade--”

“ _Stop_ , Aldon,” Harriett hissed, her grip on his hand becoming tight in warning and her green eyes flashing. And Aldon stopped, because he hadn’t intended to go on that much. Maybe a suggestion, a hint at his disgust at their Society, a hint of his bone-deep rage at the hypocrisy he lived. He _was_ drunk, he supposed, even if he was good at hiding it, and _Harriett_ was _Rigel_ , even if she wasn’t, and he couldn’t help but feel closer to her than he should. “ _Stop it right now_. People have been _arrested_ for saying less. Let’s change the subject. You are on the Hogwarts Triwizard Team, is that right? Tell me about it.”

He took a dizzying breath. She was right – of course she was right. No one as notable as he had been arrested before for fomenting sedition, but there was always a first. He forced himself to relax, and her hand loosened a touch. He opened his mouth to tell her about it, but closed it again, smiling wryly. “Are you trying to discover our strategies ahead of time? You’re on the AIM team.”

She smiled cheekily back, even if her grip on his hand was unusually tight and her eyes scanned the couples whirling around them. She was looking to see who might have been listening, but Aldon’s voice had been quiet, the music had been loud, and he had been whispering right in her ear. “Of course. You _are_ a strategist, right? Rigel tells me everything, you know.”

“Then you’ll know that I really have no idea, I’m the team’s magical theorist. Unless you want to provide me hints about anything new your team might have planned…”

She laughed, a light, bell-like sound that rang in Aldon’s core. “I’m just a Healer. I know nothing.”

“Not even your teammates?” Aldon cajoled winningly. “Come, I’m sure Rigel has already told you all about _his_ teammates, it’s only fair.”

“As a Slytherin, I understand from Rigel that you aren’t supposed to care about what is _fair_ ,” Harriett replied, eyebrow raised, for all the world as though she weren’t herself a Slytherin. “But unfortunately for you, I don’t even know them. The Healing track doesn’t have much to do with the rest of the school.”

It wasn’t a lie, but since Harriett _was_ Rigel, Aldon hadn’t expected as much. “Another topic, then. You danced with Lestrange.”

“So I did,” Harriett replied, a scowl marring her features. Aldon waited several steps, but she added nothing further.

“He’s my second cousin,” Aldon prompted neutrally. “I’ve never known him to dance at any of these events.”

She snorted. “If you want to know, you can just ask. I met him during my Potions internship. He’s prickly and annoying, but not a bad person. He knows his Potions.”

Aldon laughed. It was light, and not altogether false. “Is that what you consider to be a good person? Proficiency at potions?”

She flashed a smile up at him. “A large part of it, yes. And how are your Potions?”

“I want to tell you they are good – I did make NEWT-level Potions. However, given the frequency with which Professor Snape scolds me, I am positive that I am nothing exceptional.”

“And what does Master Snape say? You and Rigel are so fortunate to be able to learn from him.”

“That I need to stop flinching when I touch creature parts and that my knife skills are shit, mainly,” he replied, surprising a genuine laugh from her with his language. That was the point. “I take it for the theory, but was told I couldn’t exempt myself from the practical.”

She didn’t reply to that, looking away from him in thought as he guided her through a careful spin. He let her focus on the spin, on the steps for the few minutes – the quickstep was the fastest of the usual dances at a ball, as she sorted out what she was thinking.

“Rigel told me you spoke to him,” she said finally, looking up at him directly, voice quietly suspicious.

Aldon nodded slowly. He had expected as much. She wanted to know why, it was obvious, and Aldon didn’t know what to tell her. He could tell her that it was a distraction – that it was for his own benefit, even if it helped her too. That was no doubt the most comforting answer for her. He opened his mouth to tell her not to worry about it, but somehow, the words didn’t come out. It was comforting for her, but something about it felt wrong to him, incomplete. There was an aspect of that, certainly, but there was something else, too.

In a world of no choices, Harriett wasn’t a _wrong_ choice. She was certainly _less_ wrong than anyone else he could think of.

“So I did,” he replied finally, meeting her striking, sea-green eyes. “So I did.” 

XXX

The Gala ended with little fanfare, after that. Harriett danced another set with Hurst, but the last set with Arcturus, rescuing at least some small part of the supposed betrothal cover, and Aldon passed the rest of the night in casual conversation with Lucian and Adrian, who were pressing him about the Tournament. After that, there were precious few days left before the return to Hogwarts, and Aldon spent them reading detailed magical theory treatises on other channelling methods, with a particular eye to their strengths and weaknesses.

Back at Hogwarts, the entire Triwizard Team was thrown into a flurry of preparation. After seeing the past games played, Alex had forced all the players into the Duelling Club, and then forced everyone to have additional practices with Harriett once he realized how strong of a dueller she was. The Healers were ordered to brush up both the standard curses, and blunt trauma, and for the most part they trained separately from the others. Bones and Bulstrode had reviewed the regulations exhaustively, and Bones informed them in a tone of moderate disgust that, while they were long, the rules were actually simple.

“Don’t actively try to kill anyone,” she said. “A hundred and twenty pages of regulations, and most of them are case summaries for situations that would never come up. Just use your brain. No Unforgiveable Curses, don’t knock anyone out over a body of water, avoid hitting people in their vital organs.”

Among the strategists, Aldon had reviewed what magical techniques were taught at AIM, ICW, and Patagonia. AIM was the only school to teach song magic, since it was closely tied with Charms as a secondary channelling method. Normally, song magic had to be done by several witches and wizards working in concert, but it could be done solo for certain powerful witches and wizards. Lily was only the most recent of a long line of Songmasters that the school had produced, and the only one living in Britain. The bigger risk with AIM, though, was that, as a school with a strength in experimental charms, they often came into the Tournament with new spells. The _Point Me_ spell used unilaterally throughout the world was an AIM invention, apparently, whisked out in the Tournament battleground some seventy years ago.

The South Americans generally, including the Patagonian School of Magecraft, did use wands, but also drew on the natural environment to power many of their spells. The Patagonians, among the South American schools, were particularly known for their weather magics, so Aldon made a note of it to pass to Ron and to the Weasley Twins to ensure that their players were equipped to handle heavy winds and rains in that match.

ICW, the final school in their group, was in many ways the easiest. The United Academy of the International Confederation of Wizards specialized in magical law and politics, and while they produced competent witches and wizards, their graduates largely went on to careers in various wizarding governments. It was a little ironic, really – since Beauxbatons only accepted those from the most prominent, powerful and wealthiest French wizarding families, the ICW, as the only other French-speaking school in Europe, took mainly Muggleborns and those from families which did not meet the power, prestige or wealth tests. However, based on their knowledge of magical law and governance, their graduates formed the body of the public service in the French, Belgian, and Swiss magical governments. In terms of what the Hogwarts team might face, though, they were not so different in their spell-casting that Aldon thought his expertise was helpful or necessary, and he told Ron so.

He was actually somewhat surprised by Ron, now that he saw him in his role as a strategist and chess master. He had always seen Ron around as the earnest but awkward counterpart to his boisterous older brothers, or as the counterpart to Neville, whom he also had a soft spot for. He did not have a reputation as being particularly intelligent, though now that he knew Ron better, he was a little surprised by that. Ron was clearly intelligent, though perhaps not in the way that was measured by tests; he was excellent at _strategy_ , at looking at an active, real situation with real people, and predicting how they might act.

After Ron had suggested that the strategists use the fighter, defender and rounder system as a quick way to design strategies, Cho thrown herself into reviewing the records obsessively with him. She confirmed that, for AIM, unless they were trying something truly unusual, they would play with two rounders and one dedicated defender. For Patagonia, they tended to stack fighters, much like Durmstrang, so they would put three fighters on if they could. ICW didn’t really produce fighters and their historic strategy involved very close teamwork, so they tended to put on three rounders.

Ultimately, without knowing what map types would look like beforehand, and without knowing whether AIM would have a new strategy to throw out this year, Ron decided to keep Harriett in reserve to defend the Hogwarts keystone, figuring her power would make her a solid challenge if everything else went poorly. Cedric and Angelina would both move forward in a search for the AIM keystone, and while they would defend themselves, neither had an appetite for going out of their way to actively attack anyone else so early in the competition. It was a bit of a sore point for Ron, who advocated for a more aggressive approach, but he conceded that they could adapt their strategies later, if necessary.

The Weasley Twins worked closely with Ron on the items the team would be bringing into the first game. Angelina had insisted on a broom, to travel distance quickly, and they had agreed. Harriett had requested a knife, providing no explanation, but they reasoned that it would probably be useful in multiple ways and let her have it. Otherwise, they filled out Angelina and Cedric’s inventories with Peruvian Instant Darkness powder, Sleeping Powder, something that they promised would produce an instant swamp, a flashbang. For Harriett, as a defender, she was equipped with a bottle of Potter’s Portable Protection Potion, which she hadn’t requested but which they had reasoned could be used to defend the keystone if she had to abandon it, and a Barrier Button. 

They made the communication orbs early in the year. The process was, for Aldon, at least, extremely interesting. He went after dinner to the Headmaster’s office, finding most of the other players and strategists already there. Harriett, as Rigel, arrived several minutes later.

As Rigel, Harriett had been coolly professional, almost distant, since their return to school. Then again, Aldon hadn’t really expected anything different. They weren’t as close as Aldon had played it with Arcturus at the Gala, and Harriett was already annoyed at being compelled into the Tournament anyway. She did make the extra duelling practices that Alex had forced on the team, but otherwise she kept to her lab, to her private lessons with Professor Snape, to her year-mates. She had no comments on Ron’s planned AIM strategy, and generally didn’t contribute to the planning or strategy meetings, though he caught her look of interest when he discussed esoteric points of magical theory with the rest.

Inside the Headmaster’s office, Dumbledore had set up three bowls of a thick, clear potion. Aldon examined it carefully, running his magic over it lightly, but it wasn’t really a potion. It did nothing in and of itself, but was an interdisciplinary use of potions technique to create items that had the correct matrix to trap and hold speaking and listening spells. Once a drop of blood was added from him and Harriett, acting as a magical lock and activation cue on the speaking spell, the “potion” would be drawn up and solidified into two orbs, then the required spells would be charmed in.

He had never seen the process for making communications orbs before, and barely noticed when Harriett joined him. He noticed, though, when she connected her core to the not-potion, running her own magic through it. “Interesting base,” she commented, when she withdrew her magic.

“Isn’t it, Mr. Black?” Dumbledore commented, beaming, appearing from his workroom. “As you’ve correctly identified, these are not potions, just a stage in the process of making the orbs you’ll be using in the Tournament. All I need from each of you, is to pair up with your partner at one of the bowls and put in a drop of your blood. A single drop will do.”

Aldon spotted several of the other pairs giving slightly misgiving looks at the bowl, but he didn’t hesitate in directing a small puff of raw power at one of his fingers. Cutting and Severing charms were far too messy for something like this, and with enough intent, it worked well enough. He held his hand over the bowl and squeezed out a single, red, drop. Harriett shot him a slightly disbelieving look, and pulled a small knife out from the side of her boot. She pricked her finger, and similarly held her hand over the bowl, squeezing out a single drop.

He shot her a similarly disbelieving look. So his use of magic had become more and more based around raw power and runes in the last few years as he fell into a deeper understanding of magical theory; so what? _She_ , apparently, walked around armed with a knife in her boot.  

Professor Dumbledore came to them first. He waved his hand over the bowl, once, mixing it thoroughly, then drew up the not-potion into the air. The not-potion spun in the air, and Aldon noted that it was a very dark blue. The potion, then, reflected the colour of their magical signatures, not the colour of their mixed blood. He knew his colour to be a royal blue, so Harriett must be darker – not black, surely, but perhaps a dark grey or darker blue. There were numerous theories on what the colour of one’s magical signature meant, but honestly Aldon thought they were all rubbish.

The orb of potion divided into two smaller orbs, unevenly sized, spinning round and round like twin globes. One was tiny, small enough to be embedded in a ring or earring; Aldon had noticed, in Cho’s memory orbs, that the players’ all tended to wear an earring, and they never obviously reached for any communications devices. His half of it, then, would be the larger, almost palm-sized, one. They solidified, dropping down gracefully onto the table, and even knowing that they wouldn’t yet have the spells locked into their matrixes, he reached out curiously to touch the rare items. They were cool, solid, promising.

Aldon watched with interest as Dumbledore repeated the process for the other two pairs. The orbs for Ron and Angelina was a vibrant purple, whereas Cho and Cedric’s had come out dark green. Each of the other pairs, too, were poking at their orbs, though with significantly more misgivings.

“It will take some time to embed the speaking and listening spells into the orbs, but you should have the completed orbs about a week before your first match. You’ll be able to practice with them the week before, to work out any problems and see how they fit in overall in your strategy.” Dumbledore told them, a gentle smile on his face. “I look forward to the first game.”

True to his word, the orbs arrived a little more than a week from their first match with AIM, and they worked perfectly as planned. The strategists would stay on Hogwarts grounds, in the strategy room off the Entrance Hall that Dumbledore had set aside for them. They had made some effort, over the last month, to make the room both practical and comfortable. It was dominated by a large, round, table, seating about ten of them at any time. At one end of the room, they had littered armchairs and pouffes, as additional, more comfortable seating. At the other end was a long and narrow table, on which sat a single orb – a one-way imaging orb, Chang identified, a more modern and powerful version of the memory orbs. They would transmit as her memory orbs did, allowing them to follow the players within the battleground. There was another one of them, a more powerful one, in the Great Hall, where the rest of the school would be watching.

The day before the first game, Bulstrode and Bones were on duty, both Portkeying out to an undisclosed location for the traditional examination of items. Bones stayed with the Hogwarts team items, ready to answer questions or justify why they were within regulations, while Bulstrode investigated the AIM team’s items. They returned an hour past dinner, with the rest of the team already seated and waiting anxiously in the strategy room.

“No issues with any of our items,” Bones reported first with a quick smile. “Granger had some questions about the portable swamp, but let it through.”

“On the other side, nothing much to worry about. Something to help them aim their spells.” Bulstrode smiled invitingly, as if waiting for laughter, but moved on quickly when it became obvious no one was in the mood for it. They were all too tense to laugh. “The most interesting things were two potions – they weren’t labelled, but their officer said it was a protection potion and a ward disruptor. They look like ones Rigel has in his kit, the experimental ones.”

Ron glanced between Bulstrode and Harriett. “Rigel, what are the chances that these would be Potter’s Portable Protection Potion and the associated ward disruptor?”

“Almost certain,” Harriett replied, her expression bored, even if they were her own invention that had been appropriated by the other team. Aldon wondered if Arcturus was similarly strong at Potions – he had always suspected that Arcturus must be good at potions, else the ruse would never have lasted as long as it did, but he probably wasn’t anywhere near her level. “Harry did invent them.”

“So our protection potion will be useless? Not that we can switch items out this late.”

Harriett tilted her head, considering. “Not necessarily. It will probably be useful against the other schools. Very few people thus far have been able to recreate Harry’s technique – I can do it, Professor Snape, Caelum Lestrange, who is an apprentice with the Potions Guild, but that’s about all as far as I know.”

Ron chewed on his lip for a moment. “Those were the _only_ potions, in the lot, right?”

“Yes, that’s right. No other potions,” Bulstrode confirmed.

“Rigel, has Harry done more experimenting with the new potions?”

Harriett shrugged slightly, a little uncomfortable. “It’s more of a potions _technique_ than an actual potion,” she explained carefully. “So, yes, she has been experimenting more. However, if there were only the two vials in the group, then there won’t be anything else in this match – the base potion she has been working with is quite different.”

She was lying, but it was only a lie by omission, so Aldon guessed that Arcturus wasn’t able to recreate any of Harriett’s potions, but that he had supplied two made by her for this competition. Perhaps, since he was masquerading as Harry Potter at school, and Harriett’s few papers thus far had been published under “Harry”, he hadn’t been able to get out of it.

“All right, then,” Ron decided. He looked at the three main players, his blue eyes uncommonly stern. “Tomorrow, Rigel, don’t leave your post for any reason. Chances are, neither the potion nor the Barrier Button will pose any difficulty, so you’re the last line of defense. Even if AIM takes out both Cedric and Angelina, they still need to come for you, either to polish you off or destroy the keystone, so don’t leave your post. Cedric, Angelina – it’s on you to bring us a win.”

Aldon didn’t sleep well that night. It didn’t feel like he slept at all – he felt as though he had lain, awake, staring at the top of his four-poster most of the night, listening to Ed’s calming, even breaths from the bed beside his. But that didn’t make any sense, he didn’t have the patience to lie in bed for eight, nine hours at a time. Whenever he couldn’t sleep, he inevitably got up and read by wandlight, the curtains on his four-poster closed, until he fell asleep over his books. It happened, from time to time, when he was stressed, and on the rare occasion that Ed caught him at it, Ed would hex him into sleep. The fact that he _hadn’t_ gotten annoyed, gotten up, and started reading, and that he hadn’t found a book under him when he got up, meant that he _must_ have slept. He just didn’t feel like he had.

He rolled out of his bed a little after six in the morning, taking his usual care with his robes and his hair, stacking some of his more useful magical theory texts in his messenger bag, and took breakfast with him to the strategy room. He wasn’t even the first person there – Cho was there, checking and double-checking her notes, moving things around with nervous energy. She had laid out the large square of magicked parchment, sent from the ICW the week before, onto the main table. Once the game started, the parchment would reveal the terrain and the location of the other team’s keystone, though not the other team’s players. They might be able to identify, with enough familiarity with the terrain, where the other players were using the main imaging orb, but that was a matter of luck. Her communication orb, swirling dark green, was sitting in front of her, within easy reach.

Aldon joined her, setting his own communication orb within reach, in sight of both the map and the main imaging orb. He stacked his books – it was only four texts, with an emphasis on charms, beside him, and began paging through the tournament teams booklet without really paying attention to it. He had looked over the AIM team roster so many times that he had the names, the faces memorized. John Kowalski had a square jaw and close-cropped brown hair, and wore a jaunty grin. By contrast, Jessica Calderon-Boot had a stern expression, no smiles for her. Her dark hair was pulled up, out of her face, held tightly in a no-nonsense braid. Their third team member, Sidney Foster, was dark-skinned and slight, and wore a similarly serious expression. Aldon had, like the other strategists, put a note beside Kowalski’s name, noting that the family carried the gift of Natural Legilimency. It was an outside chance, but a chance was a chance.

It was shortly after eight-thirty that Ron walked in, carrying a stack of toast on a napkin. He set them on the table, much to Cho’s annoyance, and set his own communication orb, violently purple, in front of him. He ignored her glare, and instead pulled open his own team roster booklet. Aldon saw that he had messily scrawled strategy notes for the AIM team on their roster page, including far more notes than Aldon had.

The game would start at ten sharp, and Alex had ordered all team members to be present in the strategy room no later than nine-thirty. The Healers had each received a Portkey, earlier in the week, though the activation charm on it wouldn’t become effective until the game started. It wasn’t effective immediately, as many Portkey charms were; apparently there had been developments in the Portkey charm over the past few years, so it was possible to set both an activation time and an activation phrase, such that it wouldn’t whisk the Healers away until after a certain time had passed, and the correct phrase was given. The three players, too, had Portkeys to access the battleground, but once used, theirs did not allow them to exit until the game was over, until some Tournament official somewhere had declared the game over and reactivated them through a linked charm.

The three Healers, as well as the Weasley Twins, had each taken seats in the comfortable end of the room, taking the armchairs and pouffes. It was less critical that they had a clear view of the game, though Aldon thought the twins would be useful to have in the room in case AIM did come up with anything new. He took deep, calming breath – he didn’t dare hope that Harriett’s potions were the extent of their ingenuity this year. For everything he had said before, he hoped he wouldn’t actually need to reverse-engineer a new spell in the middle of a match.

Bones and Bulstrode had both chosen seats close to the imaging orb, fortunately out of the line of sight of the strategists, both with parchment on hand to take notes. Aldon spotted a copy of the Tournament Regulations sticking out of Bones’ bag, on the floor beside her seat. Alex joined them at the main table, as the person in charge of the strategy room – it would be him that ordered the Healers in, that made decisions on any appeals, that made the ultimate call on any changes of strategy.

The room was coolly, eerily silent. Even the twins seemed to have been affected by the tense atmosphere, sitting quietly and holding a silent conversation with each other. Team uniforms were the purview of each team, and Aldon recalled vaguely that Harriett said she had asked Pansy to equip them in that respect. Pansy had gone extremely practical with the outfits, though they remained fashionable; she had chosen to equip them entirely in black, with tight trousers and long tunics which stretched almost to the knee, split up the sides to the waist to allow for easy movement. They were trimmed in house colours, for those who cared, and Aldon saw that the belts they each wore were buckled with a House crest, rather than the school crest. He ran his eyes over Harriett’s form appreciatively – the belt cinched in at her waist, showing her hips, but he didn’t think anyone would notice if they didn’t already know the ruse. Cedric’s shoulders, too, were shown to great effect. The players were checking over their items, which were mostly shrunk and held in a belt-pouch, though Harriett was adjusting the knife in her boot. Each of them wore their communication orbs on their ears, though only Angelina had a piercing; both Cedric and Harriett were wearing them as clasps. They were each given a one-way imaging orb as well, which they were to set down once they were in the battleground – apparently each one was charmed to follow a player around, projecting their position to the main imaging orb. It was both entertainment and a safety precaution.

They heard the school, heavy footsteps feet and loud voices, crossing Entrance Hall and entering the Great Hall, more of them as the hour drew near. They would have snacks throughout the morning, Aldon knew, and while he might normally have liked desserts too, he didn’t think he would be able to eat anything during the game itself. He was grateful they couldn’t hear anything said; he knew that, despite the amount of work that had gone into preparations, a good proportion of the school didn’t take the Tournament seriously. Why would they? They didn’t know enough to take it seriously.

Ten minutes before the game began, the imaging orb turned on, and began playing advertisements. Of course it would – how else would the tournament recoup its costs? With four battlegrounds, the charms and wards needed, the specialized communication orbs and imaging orbs … much of the equipment running the Tournament was top notch, new, expensive. But then, he had already figured that the Tournament was very much a big deal outside of Wizarding Britain, so there was little surprise there.

He watched the advertisements with some interest. He didn’t recognize most of the brands, the products being featured, but he smiled when he saw one for the Firebolt among them. There were candy shops, robes that looked nothing like British fashion, various magical cleaning potions, shoes, anything he could think of, it was there.

A minute before the game began, the scene changed, showing a great clock ticking down. Fifty-nine, fifty-eight, fifty-seven… Aldon tried to see the terrain behind the numbers, but there was only green. Green leaves, trees, grass. He couldn’t see enough that would be useful. He glanced around the room; Ron, too, was glaring at the image, looking around the numbers, while Cho tapped on the table nervously. Angelina was fidgeting at her earring, Cedric was gripping his Portkey perhaps a little too tightly, and Harriett, well, Harriett was expressionless.

Ten, nine, eight…

Aldon heard the chanting from the Great Hall, counting down the last few seconds, loud enough even to penetrate the strategy room. He wished they wouldn’t. It was distracting.

Three, two, one.

Zero.

The three players popped out of existence.

Ron immediately sprung to his feet, leaning over the map on the table, while Aldon stared at the one-way imaging orb. The screen showed the AIM team first, appearing on the battleground under a canopy of dark, wet, trees. They were in the south of Britain, then, Aldon realized quickly – Hogwarts was still trapped under a layer of snow. It must have been colder than they were used to, because one of them, Jessica Calderon-Boot, immediately cast a warming charm. The image then switched to the Hogwarts team, also under a different canopy of trees, though Aldon was glad to see that none of their players seemed to be freezing. Pansy must have prepared their uniforms for the weather.

“Ced, can you hear me?” Cho asked, tapping on her communication orb. “Reply.”

“Loud and clear, Cho.”

“Angelina?” Ron asked, hand on his orb.

“Yes, I’m here. This is _weird_. I know we practiced, but it’s still _weird_.”

Based on the image, Harriett was still standing with her two teammates, though she was casting around for the Hogwarts team keystone.

“Testing, Rigel,” Aldon said, touching his orb, his eyes on her.

“Confirmed,” she replied curtly, as the image spun away to the AIM players once more. They had split up, now – it looked as though Calderon-Boot was shimmying up a tree, for a good vantage point, and the other two were gone.

“Game plan, everyone,” Ron said, looking around and them all. “Let’s go. Angelina, Cedric, start moving.”

“Aldon, I found the keystone,” Harriett’s said, her voice echoing eerily from the communications orb. Aldon glanced up at the image being projected not only to them, but to AIM and in the Great Hall. It showed Cedric moving cautiously through the trees, listening to Cho’s instructions based on the map. Periodically, he used the Point Me spell to orient himself to her directions, but she was guiding him, slowly, into AIM’s territory.

“As planned, then.”

Harriett’s orders were, rather than stay still in one location, to circle the Hogwarts keystone a short way away with sensing and listening charms, so that she couldn’t be taken unawares. Those spells had to be far enough away that she would have time to prepare to intercept, and she would stay on guard inside the circle of sensing spells, but she had to be far enough away that the keystone wasn’t identifiable on the image when she appeared. The AIM strategists would sometimes see _her_ , but not the keystone itself. She was the last line of defense, and their studies of the past games showed that AIM was not a bloodthirsty school. They would go for the keystone, rather than trying to eliminate players.

Angelina, too, was on the move. The terrain was hilly, with trees too close together, the canopy blocking out the morning sunlight in most of the scenes that Aldon caught. He was focused on Harriett, checking in with her once a minute, listening to her quiet replies. She kept her voice down, and the mere fact that she hadn’t appeared on the image often meant that she was doing very little interesting. The few times she did appear, he was glad that she simply seemed to be doing what the other players were doing: walking around in the woods in smooth, even strides.

Most of the players, it seemed, were just moving under the trees. Aldon hated it – all of it looked the same to him on the screen. Glancing at the map, he could tell that Ron had directed Cedric and Angelina to move in a pincer movement towards the AIM keystone. Harriett was moving in solid, slightly wobbly circles around their keystone, just waiting. He had no idea where the three AIM players were, though it looked like Calderon-Boot had set herself in a tree somewhere and planned on staying there. No doubt she was their keystone defender. She had her wand out, and was adjusting something on her shoulder, it appeared, but they couldn’t get a good vantage point on it. The orb set to following her hadn’t managed to get a good view of her.

“Angelina, from the air.” Ron ordered, his voice tense and his eyes on the screen. She had the longer distance to travel to get to the keystone, having actually moved a little farther away from it on her trajectory, but it would bring her in from a different direction than Cedric was approaching it from.

“Finally,” she grumbled, pulling out her broom from her belt-pouch. Since they couldn’t shrink the broom, they had put an Undetectable Extension Charm on it, but her broom came out easily enough. She launched into the air, flying low and using the _Point Me_ spell to arrow in on her target.

Aldon checked in with Harriett twice more, receiving quiet confirmations that everything was all clear on her end, when the tense silence was broken by Ron, swearing loudly.

His head snapped up, looking at the redhead. “Angelina, answer me,” Ron growled at his orb, but Cho shook her head frantically, rapping his hand, and pointed at the image.

It was a minute later, some sort of replay because Ron was already swearing at his orb, but Aldon watched as Calderon-Boot fiddled with whatever she had on her shoulder, sighting a dark shape upwards. A cool voice he didn’t recognize came across on the imaging orb: Calderon-Boot’s strategist, he assumed.

“Jess, we’re golden. Now.”

“Roger that.”

Her follower-orb finally seemed to wake up and move with her, moving up above the canopy. Angelina was just a smudge in the blue sky, certainly too far away for Calderon-Boot to do anything about, and yet she raised her item, a dark shape with a narrow muzzle, braced against her shoulder, and whispered the words.

“ _Stupefy_. _Stupefy. Stupefy._ ”

The image snapped, swapping to the orb that covered Angelina’s movements. She was flying, staying close to the canopy line, keeping a careful eye on the ground in front of her.

It was because she was focused on the ground in front of her that she didn’t see the red light coming her way until it was too late. She spotted the first line just in time, swerving sharply, but fell in the line of the second and third spells, and down she went into the trees, her broom now flying, without her, harmlessly across the battleground.

Aldon heard the crack behind him signalling that one of the Healers had gone in to retrieve her, but he was distracted by Ron yelling at him.

“What the _fuck_ was that?!”

“Shut _up_ , Ron,” he snapped into action, tapping on his communication orb. It was more important that Harriett know that there was an item on the field allowing for long-range shots, and Ron would hear that explanation anyway. “Rigel, Angelina’s been eliminated. Long-range _Stupefy_. Calderon-Boot has an item with a strong amplification spell on it, extending her range. The item probably also has something to improve her vision – she hit Angelina from more than a hundred yards away. Great aim – she hit two out of three body shots.”

“Got it.”

He heard Cho awkwardly adopting his explanation and relaying it to Cedric, and turned to Ron, raising his eyebrow slightly. Ron coughed slightly in apology, but his blue eyes sharpened as he looked back at the image. “Oh, _shit_.”

“Thanks, Cho, but I’m under fire here,” Cedric’s voice, strained and yet cheerful, came through. He had been ambushed by Kowalski, who still wore a disturbingly jaunty grin as he threw a series of curses and hexes at Cedric. Cedric was fast, though, dodging and blocking and giving as good as he got, but none of his spells came close to the other boy. They were each being deflected by blocking spells, but…

But Kowalski wasn’t casting blocking spells. Of the things he cast, not a single spell was _Fortis_ , and yet he recognized _Fortis_ spell appearing around him to intercept every spell Cedric cast at him. It wasn’t that he was holding the _Fortis_ spell, which would be challenging enough, it was that he was casting it anew each time. He wasn’t casting it – and yet, he was. He should have been exhausted, and yet he wasn’t. Somehow, Aldon didn’t think it was because he was a Lord-level wizard.

“Rigel, AIM has something new. Some sort of automated shield spell. I need to focus on that for a moment. Yell if anything changes.”

“Will do.”

He hesitated for a moment, then he picked up the orb and carried it with him closer to the image, staring at the interplay of spells. Cedric had changed over to curses that couldn’t be blocked, only countered, but Kowalski turned out to be a mean dueller, too, recognizing and dodging as many spells as he could. He was preternaturally good at determining what spells Cedric was casting, even though Cedric was doing half of his spell-work nonverbally.

Kowalski wasn’t, though. His spells were verbal, they were just quiet and _fast_. His reaction time was incredible. He looked over the other player carefully – he was big, but younger than a seventh-year, Aldon thought. No more than a fifth-year, perhaps.  The AIM uniforms were blue, their shirts form-fitting and short, considerably shorter than the Hogwarts tunics and almost indecent, and their pants were a little looser, with the same belt-pouches. There was nothing he could be hiding in those clothes, and he struggled to remember what, exactly, the AIM team had brought in. Bulstrode had only really mentioned the potions, and she hadn’t been concerned about the rest, though since she didn’t identify whatever object had allowed Calderon-Boot to cast a long-range _Stupefy_ , Aldon was starting to mistrust her judgement.

He heard a crack behind him, and he knew that one of the Healers had returned with Angelina. He didn’t bother looking behind him – they would have taken her right to the Hospital Wing if she was seriously injured. He had more important things to do.

Aldon didn’t know enough about what items the AIM team had brought in, and he didn’t have time to quiz Bulstrode more right now, not when Cedric had to have answers _now_. And, to be fair, he didn’t think it was an _item_ , because even if Kowalski wasn’t casting the Fortis spell with his _wand_ , he was casting it _somehow_. He _had_ to be casting it, because Cedric had largely swapped to casting spells that couldn’t be blocked by Fortis, and he was correctly identifying which spells to dodge or counter and which ones to block. He was casting _Fortis_ non-verbally, too, but since he wasn’t casting anything else non-verbally, there was something different about it.  

Channelling methods weren’t an _item_ , either, so they didn’t need to be declared.

All of this ripped through his head in less than five minutes, and he was motioning Cho to trigger her communication orb. Her eyes were wide, as he came around beside her, and her hand was on her orb.

His link to Harriett was already triggered, the orb already in his hand.

“Cedric, it’s Aldon. AIM has a new magical channelling method – I’m not sure what it is, which is why I think it’s _new_.” He heard his voice coming off the imaging orb, too, cracking by a second after he said it like a strange, otherworldly echo. He ignored it. “Whatever it is, I think it’s most like the partially imbued paper charms – he’s cut down the casting time and increased efficiency at least three-fold, else he should be staggering by now, unless he’s Lord-level. Basically, think of the spell has being half-casted, _all the time_. You won’t get by it. The good news is, he hasn’t tried anything else with it, so I’m pretty sure _Fortis_ is all he can cast with it. Forget anything that can be blocked, or physical attacks. Hit his mind if you can.”

“Got it,” Cedric’s voice was terse. He was using the trees as cover, but it blocked his aim as much as it protected him.

“You have a flashbang, Ced,” Ron practically yowled in Aldon’s ear, his own communication link with Angelina lying, dead, on the table across from him. “ _Use it!_ ”

True to their orders, Cedric threw a flashbang out from his cover, and it exploded in a cacophony of noise, shattering several of the nearby trees. Flashbangs were _not_ supposed to do that, and Aldon chanced a glance at the twins, who grinned sheepishly at him. It created a blocky, sharp, clearing, which _wasn’t_ part of the plan, because Cedric hadn’t been expecting it to do anything other than flash and bang, and he was consequently unprepared for the concussive wave knocking him to the ground.

He scrambled up, and the screen changed to Kowalski, blinking a little at the light and frowning. He had his wand trained on his face, and by the time the dust cleared and Cedric was back on his feet, the advantage had been lost. “Good try,” he commented cheerfully, before bringing his wand back in play. “But AIM is a _Healing_ school, you know. Let’s duel, Hogwarts-boy.”

Cedric didn’t dignify that with a response, which Aldon thought was entirely appropriate, instead throwing himself into another round of spell-fire. Aldon saw he did use a wide range of mind-altering spells, this time, but Kowalski was preternaturally quick at identifying them and either dodging or countering. He wasn’t so fast offensively, Aldon noted – he got off the usual rounds of Stupefy, Impedimenta, Expelliarmus, the Vertigo Jinx, Confundus, but none of them connected. If it wasn’t for the secondary casting method, whatever it was, Cedric was easily the better dueller.

“Should I go… help?” Harriett’s voice came out of the orb, echoing weirdly. Aldon realized that he had been clutching the communication link, and that she was following along based on what she heard.

“Absolutely not,” he snapped, at the exact same moment that Ron said, “Abso-fucking-lutely not.”

“All right, then.”

Ultimately, Kowalski didn’t take Cedric out.

Foster did, appearing from behind Cedric and felling him with a single, neatly placed, Stupefy.

Cho swore.

“What have I told you about playing with your food before you eat it, John?” Foster asked, one dark eyebrow raised in slight annoyance.

“Man, I wasn’t even playing,” Kowalski replied, lightly shaking out his shoulders. “He was _good_. Flashbang wasn’t anything I’d seen before either. Let’s go – Marsh says they’re two down.”

Foster saluted his teammate, slightly ironic, and strode off.

“I’m… guessing from that whole exchange that Cedric is out,” Harriett said, her voice unusually calm.

Aldon blew out a long breath. “You guessed right.” His voice was cold, emptier that it should be, a sheet of ice coating it, and set his orb down on the table, closing the communication link. The image orb had returned to views of the four remaining players, walking in the woods. The forest was unusually calm, quiet – there weren’t even birds.

“They won’t want to eliminate him, though,” Ron interrupted sharply, suddenly, looking up at the image. Harriett was looking around carefully, cautiously, but there wasn’t a hint of fear on her face. Aldon would have thought it odd, but then again, the girl had already dealt with a basilisk and a crazed Hogwarts teacher, so maybe an unlikely-to-cause-serious-harm war game wasn’t that worrying. Aldon wished he could say the same, because his heart was beating a vicious rhythm in his chest. “Or, probably not. They want the keystone more – we’re in pools, they want a five-nothing win. He needs to back further off the keystone – standing by it is going to be a giant sign telling them where our keystone is.”

“I don’t know, Ron,” Cho said, hesitating. Aldon glanced at the back of the room – both Angelina and Cedric were back. Cedric was fine, having been revived quickly, but Stark still had Angelina out and was Healing something. “They might want to go after the keystone, but they only need to eliminate Rigel – a three-nothing win is still a win. And he already has the listening and sensing spells circling the keystone, so wouldn’t they be able to tell roughly where it is anyway? I say we set up the other precautions and just have him wait for the attack.”

“The sensing spells are tied to Rigel, though,” Aldon added. “They wouldn’t sense them unless they were specifically looking for them – certainly, even if they sensed them when they crossed the line, they wouldn’t know that it’s a circle around the Hogwarts keystone.”

“From the items, Cho, we know that they can break the protection potion, and the Barrier Button is a Marauder product – they know how to counter both. Our extra protections will buy us time, nothing more, and they outnumber us, and those protections will make the keystone stand out.” Ron bit his lip, thinking, then grimaced. “We’re pinned. Our choices are really this: we can have Rigel close to the keystone, with the extra protections, and hope he can take them on two or three on one, or we can have him move further away and rely on the fact they want a five-nothing win. If we do that, I think they’ll split their forces – one of them will hold Rigel down while the other looks for the keystone.”

“Rigel is a good dueller,” Aldon said, turning to catch Alex’s eye. The taller Ravenclaw had been at the back, checking on Angelina and Cedric. Angelina was conscious, again, though the look on her face said she wasn’t too pleased. “He can take them on, one on one. It’s an outside chance – if he can eliminate the one holding him down, he can return to defend the keystone.”

There was a pause, as the strategists and Alex exchanged glances, and Alex nodded. “Pass on those orders, Aldon.”

“Rigel, move away from the keystone,” Aldon said, with no preamble, triggering his communication link. “One of them will come after you. Eliminate him as fast as possible and return to defend the orb.”

There was a cool pause, and then her response.

“Understood.”

Aldon looked up to the image to see that she was still walking in woods, with not a hint that anything was different than before. As the last Hogwarts player, though, whoever was controlling the image orbs had clearly decided that she was the most interesting focus, because she took up most of the screen, most of the time. Her follower-orb tracked her movements, sailing above and beside her like a weird, haunting, ghost. She paused often, stopping to scan the trees around her, both with her senses and with her magic. Five minutes passed, then ten, then twenty, and Aldon saw her tilt her head slightly as something caught her attention.

“Rigel Black,” Kowalski said, melting out of the trees like a shadow, sidestepping her Vertigo Jinx. They locked eyes for a minute, and that was when Aldon _knew_. She fired another spell at him, a Confundus Charm, and he dodged it, too, with eerie grace. “Your cousin talks about you a lot, you know.”

“Funny. I’ve never heard of you,” Harriett replied casually, throwing another spell at him, which he deflected with his Fortis charm. This one was non-verbal – he didn’t know she had the ability. Her voice was cool, calculating, a little stiff. “You’re a Natural Legilimens.”

She was panicking, Aldon knew. He could hear it in the stiffness of her voice, in the uncommonly still way that she held herself, see in in the fact that she wasn’t holding him down with a barrage of spell-fire like they had practiced – but it had nothing to do with the Tournament. No, if Kowalski was a Natural Legilimens _and_ he knew her cousin, then…

“That I am. I get it from my grandmother. Nice shields, by the way – Harry’s have gotten much better in the past couple years too, but yours are something else.” He grinned, an open, friendly grin with just a hint of challenge, but it shifted immediately into surprise.

It was a split second before his strategist’s voice, a low baritone, came over imaging orb. “John, Jess has been attacked. She’s out.”

“What? But—”

“I know.”

Distraction was distraction, even if it made no sense, Aldon grasped it, tapping his communication link, his voice a near unrecognizable growl. “Rigel, _now_ , we can worry about he said later!”

He had the briefest glimpse of Harriett and Kowalski exchanging spellfire, before the imaging orb spun away to a view of Jessica Calderon-Boot. She was in the tree, still, the device that he didn’t recognize now lying loosely in her arms. He heard Alex’s sharp intake of breath, and there was a loud crack of a spell, and her head snapped back, and she was falling, bleeding and falling, something clearly broken, and then she was on the ground, her blood, so much of her blood, seeping in a puddle around her. Two AIM Healers had already Portkeyed in – he recognized Arcturus, and the other was a girl, who had her dark hair tied out of her way in a no-nonsense ponytail. They were working frantically on her, and the girl had pulled out a Blood-Replenishing Potion, and Aldon knew that whatever it was, it was serious. They would have Portkeyed her out with them if it wasn’t. It was a few minutes before Arcturus, grim-faced, stood up, crossing his arms in the “X” signifying that his player could not continue play. 

The image spun again, to Harriett and Kowalski’s duel on the other side of the map. Harriett _was_ the better dueller, by a considerable margin, but even without his Legilimency, Kowalski still had his other channelling method, which he used with abandon. It also helped that he wasn’t _trying_ to win – he was just distracting her, Aldon realized, because when she was preoccupied with him, she was not defending her keystone. He didn’t _need_ to be the better dueller, he only needed to be good enough to not be hit, bothersome enough that Harriett couldn’t turn her back. He only needed to be good enough to buy time for his teammate.

And he was good enough. While he was hard-pressed by Harriett’s fast spell-work and her wide repertoire, between his new channelling method, his speed, and his own spell-work, he was plenty good enough. Harriett was better defensively than she was attacking, Aldon realized. She was excellent at taking advantage of the opportunities provided to her when other people attacked _her_ , but she wasn’t as strong against duellers who mainly defended themselves. In most situations, that would be fine – just not in this one, because Kowalski had no need to attack her.

They waited, and the longer they waited, the more his stomach dropped. He looked at Ron, whose eyes were trained, lips pressed hard together, on the imaging orb, and at Cho, whose hands were gripping the table so tightly he thought she had made dents in the wood with her fingernails. Alex, by contrast, was sitting in his chair, grim-faced, thinking.

The moment the imaging orb spun to show the Hogwarts keystone was almost an inevitability. It was a small, almost undiscernible rock, covered in moss and trapped between the roots of an ancient yew tree. He saw Foster, searching the grounds with his wand, spot it and, with a tight, white, smile, point his wand at it. 

“ _Confringo_.”

The rock exploded, and a great gong rang out through the battleground.

“Winner: The American Institute of Magic, 5 to 1.” 

XXX

Aldon stayed in the strategy room that entire day. He remembered the icy silence that fell in the room, that he heard from the Great Hall. Facing the school would be something that they would have to do, another day, because with a few exceptions, Alex had effectively sealed their room. No one was to enter. No one was to leave. The first hour had been by regulation, to wait for score confirmation, since an hour was the appeal deadline. Once the appeals were launched, though, it was customary, but not a rule, for at least the affected team members to wait until they were resolved.

Harriett had gotten back easily enough under her own power, Portkeying in a minute after the game result was declared. She was not happy to be locked in the room with them past the customary hour, and it showed – something about needing to get to her Potions lab, but when she had tried to say something, to leave anyway, Alex had gotten in the way and shoved her roughly back into an armchair.

AIM, as Cho had predicted, white-faced, in the first few minutes, filed an appeal for their player, Calderon-Boot. She had lost a lot of blood, and in the short snippet they had seen, the usual Healing spells didn’t seem to be working, suggesting that it was “action likely to permanently disfigure, maim, or kill”. Even if not, the timing was suspicious, and as it stood, Hogwarts generally stood accused of cheating.

In response, Alex ordered Bones to file an appeal on the game for the long-range amplification device, even though she told him that, based on precedent, it wasn’t likely to be successful – Angelina had been flying close to the canopy, and she had only broken a couple bones on the way down. It wasn’t the sort of action that fell under “action likely to permanently disfigure, maim, or kill”. And, anyway, Cho said, Mahoutokoro shot people off their brooms all the time. That was their playing style.

Harriett technically wasn’t implicated by either appeal – her whereabouts during both incidents were well-established, but Alex made no exception for her. Aldon should have said something; Alex’s shove had been hard, forceful. He almost had, but he had looked at his friend’s face, coolly patrician with blazing, summer-blue eyes, and he had wondered if he had ever known him. Alex was normally cool – his sentences were normally short, to the point, dropping unnecessary words, and Aldon had always thought that a reflection of his sharp intelligence. Alex was smart, and he was nonchalant, and even if he smiled and snorted and snickered sometimes, he was unalterably _cool_. That was why they had become friends. Alex didn’t ask him a lot of questions, he just _was_. He was a lot like Ed, a version of Ed that was tempered glass instead of cold stone.

This Alex was different. Alex was blazing, and he exercised his authority with no qualms. He ordered Harriett to stay in the strategy room, his right hand wavering uncomfortably close to his wand and he kept a sharp eye on her. She tried to leave perhaps two or three more times, that first couple hours, and each time he intercepted her and redirected her back into the armchair. The last time she tried, he told her that if she did it once more, he would Petrify her, then have Aldon bind her in the armchair with a runic ward. She had frozen then, her grey eyes glittering strangely, then settled back in the armchair, a mulish expression on her delicate face.

It lasted the second hour, and part of a third, before Alex relaxed even a little, realizing that the twins, backed by Harriett, were on the verge of a revolt. Instead, he simply emphasized to all of them, in no uncertain terms, that since they were _all_ formally charged with cheating, they _all_ needed to remain accounted for until the decision was made, and asked Stark and Jones to go to the kitchens and order them food. He let them go, in pairs, to collect anything they might need with strict orders to return immediately, lest he need to go retrieve them personally.

Aldon only left, once, with Ed, to retrieve parchment for a paper he needed to write, not even questioning the order to return. Even the twins obeyed, leaving once for a pack of Exploding Snap and returning. It was surprising, in a way, but Alex was in charge, he was their leader, in a way that Aldon didn’t think he could explain to anyone who hadn’t been under it. It was _leadership_ , he realized soon enough. Leadership presence. Alex had it, and he gave the orders, and he expected them to be obeyed, and they were.

It was half-six when Bones returned, looking pale and drawn, her arms full of the _Triwizard Tournament Regulations._  

“No luck,” she said, setting her book down on the table and sitting in a hastily vacated chair that Stark offered her. “They said Angelina was too close to the treeline and ground, and with the canopy to catch her, there was no risk of permanent disfigurement, maiming, or death. Worse news, too – Granger’s appeal for Calderon-Boot succeeded. They believed us that we had nothing to do with it, which was borne out by the Portkey logs, but that made it an unlawful interference in the game by a third party. And whatever spell was cast, it was bad – whoever did it tied the Cutting Curse with a Dark hex that kept the blood from clotting. If AIM weren’t a school that focused on Healing, she would have died. As it is, she nearly died anyway, and she’s going to have the scars forever. AIM’s putting in their alternate for their next games. So the official score is 5 to 0.”

There was a long, dark silence. Aldon looked around the room: Harriett, Ed, and the other two Healers were sitting in armchairs at the back, Harriett farthest from the door. The rest of them were seated at the table, Ron looking exceptionally pale under his freckles. Cho had a mildly shell-shocked expression on her face, as did Angelina and Cedric, and Bulstrode looked drawn. Bones was refusing to look at Bulstrode, her face tight and focused. Even the twins were looking grim, and the expressions were so unusual on their faces that it just looked wrong. 

“Let’s review what happened today, everyone,” Alex said, his voice quiet, a sharp dagger in the silence. He was speaking in full sentences, which was a little unlike him, and Aldon heard the whisper of something else in his words. Was it the barest hint of a lisp? “We’ll start with the sniper rifle. Bulstrode, would you like to tell us why you didn’t tell us that AIM would have a sharpshooter with them?”

Bulstrode shifted uncomfortably under the team’s stare. “I didn’t know what it was. They called it an assistive aiming device, and I didn’t think much of it. And I did tell you about it, I made a joke about it.”

“An _assistive aiming device_ ,” Alex repeated, his voice still cold steel. “And you didn’t think to ask questions? You thought that it was grounds for a _joke?_ ”

She quailed under his glare. “Well, it’s AIM, you know…”

Ron snorted. “And because it’s AIM, they’re not purebloods, of course they need something to help them aim,” he snapped, disgusted. “That’s what you’re trying to say, isn’t it? Angelina broke three ribs on the way down. She hit the branches in a bad position.”

Bulstrode looked away, refusing to dignify that with a reply, though it was patently obvious from the look on her face that he had hit the nail on the head.

Alex waited for a minute longer, to see if she had anything else to say, then turned to the rest of the hushed room for any further comments. There were none, and he turned back to her, still looking anywhere but at anyone in the room. “Obviously, that is a problem. It is a _problem_ , Bulstrode, that you cannot set aside your preconceived ideas to do your main duty _,_ which is to examine what items other schools are going to be bringing into the competition. If you can’t identify a _sniper rifle_ as a problem, then why should we have you be a part of this team?”

“Wait,” Harriett rocketed to her feet, a little unsteady. Her face was drawn, but set. “Millie didn’t know, she’d never seen one before. We all make mistakes. That doesn’t mean that she can’t do her duties.”

“But I don’t trust her to, anymore,” Angelina said quietly. “If I had known that long-range spells were a possibility, I would have done things differently. I would have stayed under the treeline. It’s not about whether she can do it, it’s about whether we can trust her to do it. I don’t.”

“Part of that might have been our fault, too, to be fair,” Cedric interrupted, his voice even. “I don’t think it’s even a matter of trust – I don’t think Millicent has the necessary skills for her job. Susan, we took her on because with her background in wizarding law, we knew that she would be good at interpreting the tournament regulations and arguing the appeals. We took Millicent on because with her background in international politics, we thought that she would know more about other wizarding communities and any recent developments that could affect the games. We misjudged the kind of items that people would be bringing in. We should have looked for a second magical theorist, or put Aldon in the role.”

Bulstrode’s head snapped up, grasping at the hint of hope. “Why didn’t Rosier pick it up, then? What’s his excuse?”

Aldon glared at her – she was a _Slytherin_ , she should know rank. And respect. “Rosier did pick it up,” he said, his voice a quiet, mocking, purr. “Rosier was the one who explained how it worked as soon as he saw it work. But I couldn’t possibly have known they had brought in a spell amplification device unless you told me. Don’t pin this on me, Bulstrode – you’re the one responsible for reviewing the other team’s items before they go on. You need to actually know something about the items you’re reviewing to do that, of course.”

“Rosier saved our ass in there,” Ron said, similarly glaring at Bulstrode, and Aldon was so surprised that he stopped glaring at her. “I know it didn’t count for much in the end, but at least he could tell us how to deal with things once they happened.”

There was a cool pause.

“We can’t recruit anyone else, at this stage,” Bones said, voice devoid of any inflection, flipping open her increasingly battered copy of the Tournament Regulations. “If you remove her from the team, then we’ll need to pick up the slack. We’re allowed to move around the Healers, Compliance Officers and Equipment Managers to cover it, or you would need to step in, Alex.”

“Are there any specific regulations for removing a team member?”

Another pause, as Bones re-read several passages from the beginning of the book. “Only for players and strategists. No one else.”

“I really think that we should reconsider this,” Harriett interrupted again, still standing. The twins had made room for her at the table, and while she couldn’t squeeze a chair in beside them, her hands were on the table. “Millie’s learned from this, it won’t happen again.”

It was nice of her, to defend her friend, even though Aldon privately thought it was all for naught.

“Look, Black,” Angelina said, her face slightly apologetic. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but I don’t think you should even have a say in this. You never cared about this process before – you show up, but you don’t care, at least not until your friend fucks it up for the rest of us. We’re a team – you have to think about what’s best for us all, not just you and your friends.”

“Rigel cares,” one of the twins spoke up, defending her. “When have you ever heard him complain about anything, Angelina? He carries his weight, he does what we ask him to do. And he’s a team member, same as the rest of us. You don’t have to like what he says, but he gets a say in it, same as the rest of us.”

Angelina grunted and looked away, crossing her arms. Well, as the injured person, Aldon supposed she had a right.

“Let’s put it to a vote, then,” Alex ruled. “All in favour of removing Bulstrode from the team?”

All four of the Gryffindors raised their hands, the twins with apologetic glances at Harriett, as did Alex and Cho. Cedric hesitated, one long second, then he put his hand up as well. That was seven.

Some would say that it was betraying his house, but Aldon didn’t think of it that way. The way he saw it, he had a choice – Bulstrode, or Harriett. A vote to keep Bulstrode in was a vote to make things more dangerous for Harriet in later games, and his hand made eight. Eight, out of fourteen.

“Carried. Bulstrode, leave your Tournament Regulations book and get out. Don’t come back.” Bulstrode, looking down, slowly pulled her book out from her bag, dropping it on the table with a dull thud. Slowly, she pulled herself up from the table and walked out, face lowered, though Aldon still spotted the shine of tears in her eyes. “Aldon, can you rework the wards on this room to exclude her magical signature, or should I ask Professor Dumbledore to do it?”

Aldon stood, pulling out his wand and walking to the heavy wooden door, checking over the wards. He recognized them – it hadn’t been Dumbledore to set up this ward, but Flitwick, and he spotted Flitwick’s telltale explanation tags all over the spell work. Since he was always harping on their class to include explanation tags in their work, he was pleasantly surprised to see that his professor at least practiced what he preached. He found the permitted persons section easily, rifling through the magical matrix until he found the tag labelled _Millicent Bulstrode_. He snipped out that portion, letting the magic snap back into the matrix, where it shifted to cover the gap. The loose bit of magic, Bulstrode’s magical signature, he disintegrated with a deft mental twist, snapping in the air as light. “It’s done.”

“Good.” Alex stopped, looking at the lot of them again. “Healers, Susan, Equipment Managers – you’re free to go. The rest you will not want to hear, and it will not particularly relevant to you anyway.”

Two of the Healers, Stark and Jones, rose and left with no complaints. Bones stood, but she paused, staring at Alex for a long moment.

“You’ll tell me if there’s anything I _need_ to know, right?” she asked, though her tone said that it was not a question. “If you’re even _contemplating_ breaking the regulations…”

“Go on, Susan,” Alex said, favouring her with a small smile. “Go sleep. You’ve earned it, and yes, we will tell if you all strategy beforehand. The next part is just … a trust exercise.”

She looked at him skeptically, but walked towards the door, anyway. “Fine. _All_ strategy, Alex. Don’t break the regulations.”

Alex turned to look at the Weasley Twins, but their faces were set. “We’re staying,” said one.

“You have our puppy and our baby brother,” said the other. “We’re staying.”

“Besides, we could do with a bit of trust too,” said the first, smiling winningly. “We should have told you that the flashbangs would do more than flash and bang.”

Alex snorted, shaking his head, then he looked at Ed, who had been on his way out, but had stopped and taken a seat at the table beside Aldon. “Rookwood?”

“I’m staying,” Ed rumbled, his mountain’s voice low, and a glance in his eyes showed that he didn’t believe the _trust exercise_ explanation any more than Aldon did. The difference, Aldon thought, was that he trusted Alex, and Ed didn’t. “If Aldon must stay, then I’m staying.”

Alex nodded, letting it go, and pulled a notebook from his bag, paging through it to find a diagram, and handed it to Aldon. “The three of you will wish you hadn’t, soon enough. Rigel, sit down. Aldon, can you cast this? I’m afraid it’s a little too Dark for me to do easily, but it should be well within your ability.”

Aldon took the proffered notebook cautiously, looking over the runic diagram. It was like nothing he had seen before, but the runes were Eastern European. Did he bring that book? He had – he reached out and flipped to the dictionary at the end, identifying the runes, one by one. Runes for silence, for secrecy. A pattern for consequence. He ignored the stares around the table – he wasn’t casting anything until he knew what it was. It took him many long minutes to decipher the diagram, and when he did, he looked up.

“You cannot be serious, Alex,” he said, his voice betraying his disbelief. Where had Alex, a Light wizard, ever gotten a hold of this pattern? “This is…”

“I’m serious, Aldon. If you don’t cast it, I will myself, affinity be damned,” his friend replied, his eyes bright as a winter’s morning, and Aldon knew, staring in his friend’s eyes, that there was something very serious indeed about his friend that he had missed. “I’ve done it before and I’ll do it again. You know I am speaking truth, Aldon.”

Aldon pressed his lips together, looking at the diagram. He could refuse to cast it, but Alex was telling the truth – and he was having a foreboding feeling about the last sentence. If he didn’t cast it, Alex would. And Alex, then, would be the only person with the keys to let them out.

He looked down at the diagram again, and stood on shaking legs, pulling out his wand. He felt drunk, gut-punched, and he grimly held onto the diagram as he paced the four walls of the room, his wand drawing out the Dark runes with little effort. They spilled from his wand, pieces of magic, patterns of light, splaying onto the walls so innocently, even if they bound them all. The magic did come easily to him – he was Dark, and for a split second, he hated that fact. But affinities were born, not chosen, and ultimately the affinity did not make the person – the fact that he was casting a Dark runic ward on the orders of a Light wizard was proof positive of that fact.

He had never cast something so aggressive before.

He finished the ward with complex knot at the door and shut the notebook loudly, a cold clap in the silence. The notebook he returned to Alex, sliding it across the table back to him with a slight tremble in his fingers.

“Thank you,” his friend said, relaxing his shoulders slightly. He looked around the room – at the team members whose faces now varied from mild interest to outright horror. “Don’t worry – for all of Aldon’s dramatics, the ward is only a strong privacy ward.”

“One that forbids us from telling anyone else anything that is said in this meeting,” Aldon snapped. “One that will make us _choke_ on the words if we try.”

Alex waved his hand diffidently. “How can we begin to truly trust each other unless we have some reassurance that nothing said in this room will travel? And, anyway, the ward is outdated – there are other ways of communication than _telling_ people. The choking will just be a reminder – the true enforcement comes from us. By the time we leave tonight, we’ll each know enough about each other that we won’t _want_ to betray this trust.” He paused, casting a stern eye over the rest of the room. “Someone is interfering in the Tournament.”

A cold silence greeted his words, but at this stage, none of them could deny it. Someone had nearly died today, even if she wasn’t on their team.

“Rigel, you never put yourself into the Tournament, did you?”

Harriett looked at the stern Ravenclaw, and nodded. “That’s right.”

Surprisingly, Alex’s eyes flickered over to Aldon, and Aldon pressed his lips together again.

He knew. He _definitely_ knew, and suddenly Aldon was thankful for the wards, as heavy-handed as they were.

“Well, Truth-speaker?”

Aldon coughed, throat dry, even as he heard the title spilling from his friend’s lips. It was an ancient title – he had only read it in the oldest memoirs. Truth-speakers were rare, and in the past, they were accorded great respect. Before the invention of Veritaserum, they were an integral part of the Wizarding Courts of Law. His voice trembled slightly. “He speaks truth.”

“I don’t suppose, Rigel, you know _who_ would have put you in for the Tournament?”

“None,” she lied, and Aldon didn’t need Alex to look at him before he shifted uncomfortably. She caught his shifting, though, and before Aldon had to say anything or Alex had to press her, she corrected herself. “Lord Riddle, maybe.”

“I did think it was unusual that you were picked, Rigel,” Angelina offered, giving her a sharp look and folding her dark hands on the table. “In the first task, you only followed Cedric’s directions; in the second, you didn’t put up a very good performance, even if you did save McLaggen’s life. And you’re a fourth year. I thought that it was because they wanted a team of one person from every House, but if Riddle put your name in, and he was on the selection committee with three of his Ministry allies, then you probably didn’t have much choice.”

Harriett put on a pained half-smile and left it at that.

“But if they’re interfering, then what for?” Ron asked, drumming his fingers on the table in thought. “If it was Lord Riddle, then why does he want you in this Tournament? Why have we been invited to play it again, anyway? I’m not stupid, I know that we were kicked out when the Muggleborn bans came in place, but why now? We haven’t lifted the bans, and if anything, they’re worse now.”

“The sanctions have been tough on Wizarding Britain,” Ed said quietly, with a concerned glance in Aldon’s direction. “Our domestic economy is still going strong, but anything we need to import is expensive. Most of the former trade families are shades of their former selves – the Selwyns were one of them. There are only a few families still able to make it in trade, and from all accounts, the Lestranges will be going down within a few years. The Lestranges are very strong supporters of the Party.”

“Riddle could have promised changes to have the Tournament be played again, too,” Aldon added, thinking back over the past couple years. “There have been changes over the past few years. The Marriage Law is still tabled, and even if that is mainly because Riddle doesn’t have the support to pass it, he could use it as a bargaining chip at the ICW. And Society has been opening up, this last year; there were many Light families at the past two SOW Party Galas.”

“Riddle knows I am powerful,” Harriett said, her voice soft, her face pinched at a bad memory. “Since last year. Professor Snape told him. He doesn’t like that I try to hide it.”

There was a round of snorts at the table, and even Harriett smiled weakly.

“So your involvement could just be to force you to show off, then,” Ron smiled, though it was equally weak. “To show off pureblood power. But what about today? Why attack AIM?”

“We were losing,” one of the Weasley twins reminded him. “Losing _badly_.”

“Let’s be honest, though,” Cho said. Her face was pale, luminous under the light. “We were sunk the minute Ced went down. The chances we had of pulling that out of the fire were minimal.”

“But it hasn’t been played in forty years, so maybe Riddle didn’t know that?” the other twin asked. Aldon supposed one day he would have to learn to tell them apart. “And it did even the score a little, at least until AIM appealed.”

“The appeal was always going to succeed, though,” Cho said, waving her hand. “First, it was interference. Second, Calderon-Boot is going to have scars forever – that’s permanent disfigurement.”

“I doubt _that_ was Lord Riddle,” Ed said, shaking his head. “It doesn’t serve his purposes to have it look like Hogwarts was cheating. Were he to interfere, it would not have been so obvious. Ultimately, Lord Riddle and the SOW Party want to protect our way of life – he would want to demonstrate to the world that we are stronger because of it.”

“It could be an opportunist, as well.” Alex tapped his fingers on the table. “There are always multiple motivations, especially for a major international event like the Tournament. We don’t have enough information to guess, we can only take greater precautions going forward. Whoever interfered today is not afraid to use lethal force, and we need to be prepared to react accordingly. Which brings me to my next point, and the real reason for the wards.”

He smiled at them all, showing his teeth, and Aldon felt his stomach drop, as all three Weasleys shoved themselves away from the table, Ron’s chair falling to the ground with a clatter. He felt Ed’s hand grip his shoulder, uncommonly tight, prepared to pull Aldon to the ground, and saw Cedric and Cho freeze, their eyes wide. Angelina’s hand was reaching for her wand, and only Harriett still looked calm, though her eyes traced his face cautiously, with intense interest.

“No more secrets, not in this group. Put your wand down, Angelina, you don’t need it.” His fangs were tiny, only enough to dimple his lower lip if he didn’t keep them carefully tucked in, and now Aldon knew why his friend tended to speak in short, clipped sentences, why his smiles were so small, tight, closed. “Aldon will tell you that I speak truth. We need to know everything that everyone in this room can do – no matter how Dark, unusual, or dangerous your secret might be. Only if we know _everything_ can we plan, and you can all see my secret, now. My name is Aleksandr Dragić.”

“You’re part-vampire,” Ed commented, his hand on Aldon’s shoulder loosening slightly. “I assume you’re part of the Order in the Balkans?”

“ _Part_ -vampire?” Ron spluttered, his voice pitching upwards almost comically. “I didn’t think vampires could… I didn’t think part-vampires _existed_.”

“We’re very rare,” Alex said, dropping any pretense of hiding his small fangs. “Yes, I am a part of the Order, as is every dhampir. It’s our sworn duty to hunt vampires, though there are less than two hundred of us world-wide, and only three of us are also wizards. Most dhampir are not magic users, and the fact that I am has made me a high priority target for the vampire community since I was very young. My parents sent me to Britain because the vampire population here is _tamed_ , as we say. The vampires at home are decidedly not, especially with the hostilities in Bosnia. They are, as we call it, enjoying a blood frenzy.”

Ron and other Weasleys were cautiously re-taking their seats, though Angelina kept her wand in hand.

“So. My skills: I am unusually strong, fast, and resilient. I know how to free duel – I’ve been training with another of my kind over the summers in Romania. I am a master of the blade, and have a passing familiarity with other weapons. More importantly for the moment, since I’m not actually entering the battleground, I know Muggle weaponry and battle technology, and I’m familiar with their wizarding equivalents. A sniper rifle would not have passed by _me_.”

“Do you drink blood?” one of the Weasley twins asked, leaning forward in mild interest, and from the round of soft, nervous, laughter, Aldon could tell that it, at least, fractured the ice.

Alex favoured him with sardonic half-smile, his fang dimpling into his lower lip. “Only if I want to be court-martialed.”

“I have a question,” Harriett spoke up, her eyes unusually direct. “You said a few times that Aldon would say if we were telling the truth. You called him a Truth-speaker. What does that mean?”

Aldon sighed, feeling resignation seep through him. Of course Harriett would fixate on that, instead of the part-vampire before her, because _his_ gift was the one that threatened her. She had good reason to think so, too, because Aldon _had_ figured out her ruse.

“He means exactly what he says,” Aldon answered, his voice quiet, meeting her fake, grey, eyes. He willed her to understand, though he wasn’t entirely sure what he was trying to make her understand. Yes, he knew her secret. No, he hadn’t told anyone. No, he didn’t plan on telling anyone, not yet, anyway, and if she wanted to keep it secret then he would try to help. He was a half-blood, too. “Lies irritate my magic. It’s not a well-known gift.”

“Though Aldon relies a little too much on his gift, if truth be told, I think,” Alex commented, with a small, but genuine, smile. “He can be misdirected. He never found me out.”

“For which I will be spending many hours in self-reflection, I’m sure,” Aldon replied, rolling his shoulders lightly, shaking Ed off. He had calmed down, slightly; Alex was still the same Alex, part-vampire or not, he reminded himself. Just like he was still Aldon, Truth-speaker or not. Alex had never harmed them before, there was no reason for him to start now. His gift said that Alex told the truth. “How did you find out, Alex?”

“I didn’t have confirmation until now,” his friend smirked openly. “But there were clues: ordering people to stop lying was a big one. If I hadn’t met another Truth-speaker in Serbia a year ago, it wouldn’t have occurred to me. Now, is that your only secret?”

“No,” Aldon said bluntly. “But it’s the only one that matters.”

Alex met his eyes, blow-torch blue to fiery orange, and there was a long pause, then he looked back at the rest of the table. “So Aldon can tell us who is lying, aside from his strengths in magical theory and runic wards. Who’s next?”

There was a frozen silence around the room, before the one of the Weasley twins spoke up. “For our family, we’re very much … well, what you see is what you get. Fred and I have a bit of a sympathetic link to each other, which comes in useful now and then, but not in any way that might be useful. Ronnie might be a passive Seer – sometimes his joke guesses are surprisingly on the mark.”

Ron snorted. “George is making that up. There’s no Seer blood in the Weasley line. I’m nothing special.”

“Other than being a chess whiz,” Fred corrected with a smile. “Let’s not sell ourselves _too_ short, now.”

“I also have no particular gifts,” Ed said, his voice smooth. He had relaxed, then, though Aldon would bet that his hand was still hovering close to his wand pocket. “I can Heal, obviously. Otherwise, and completely irrelevantly, I am a decent dueler and am good with magical creatures of all types.”

Alex looked at Aldon for confirmation, and with some small hesitation, Aldon nodded.

One of the things that the oldest Truth-speakers had written about was the difficulty of being used as a living lie detector. It was one of their most important roles, centuries ago, and for all the honour and praise heaped on them, they were also not _free_. But it was Alex asking, and because it was Alex asking, because it was for a Tournament suddenly more serious today than it had been a day ago, Aldon thought he could live with it.

“I’ll go next,” Cho said, still pale but brushing her dark hair behind her ears with trembling fingers. “None of this should be a surprise. As you know, my parents went to the National Magic School of China, in the paper-casting school. My paper-casting is not very good, but I can do it. Paper-casting is difficult – it’s based on our written language, and while I can speak Chinese, I’m basically illiterate – but I can teach you how to make the paper version of _Hominem Revelio_ for the next game.”

“That will be very helpful, Cho,” Alex nodded, with a soft, genuine smile. “Angelina?”

The dark-skinned girl shrugged. “I suppose mine is much like Cho’s. My parents went to Ougadou, but they haven’t taught me how to be an Animagus yet. But I can braid extra magic into my hair – I usually have about half a core’s worth in it, which I can reabsorb if I need it.”

“How much _can_ you braid in?” Aldon asked curiously. It was a talent largely used by witches and wizards trained in Africa, and he had read a mention of it in one of his books, but since their pool didn’t include any of the three African schools, he hadn’t looked further into it.

“For me?” Angelina reached up, touching her braids with a look of concentration. “I think I can keep about three-quarters of my core in in my hair. But the magic _does_ come from me – I’m not making more, it’s more than I can conserve the magic I don’t use on one day to use another day. I usually put in some before bed, because my core will replenish itself overnight.”

“Next game, then, be sure to have as much in as possible before the game starts. Extra power is never a bad thing.” Alex nodded decisively, then turned to Cedric, sitting beside her, who was unusually quiet.

That was unlike him, Aldon reflected suddenly, casting his eyes over his classmate. Cedric was always one to smooth things over, always bright and easy and hopeful. He was the voice of positivity on their team, when Alex was the voice of reason. He should have been soothing out the rest of the alarm, the rest of the awkwardness, working to make everyone relax. Instead, he was pale, and his eyes flickered between Alex and Aldon carefully. He glanced at the door. “Will we really choke if we say anything about this meeting?”

His voice was queer – he didn’t sound offended, or shocked. Rather, he almost seemed to be seeking reassurance.

“Yes,” Alex said. “Which doesn’t stop anyone from _communicating_ what is said from this meeting, to be clear. The ward gives us enough confidence in each other to share our secrets at all, and reminds us if we try to _tell_ anyone. If you choose to _communicate_ what was said here, well, the ward won’t stop you – your fear of the consequences will.” He smiled darkly, showing his tiny fangs again.

“I’m just asking, because what you’re asking me to reveal is not just my secret,” Cedric said, sighing heavily. “Put your fangs away, Alex. What does everyone remember about the Conquest?”

Aldon blinked at the change of subject. The Conquest was almost a millennium ago, and most of the oldest nobility were descended from the wizards who had followed the Conqueror across from Norman France. The Malfoys, the Lestranges, even the Blacks and the Rosiers, though the Rosiers had been foot soldiers. They had nearly exterminated the existing wizarding population, those who had been around from the time of the Romans – they certainly killed their way of life. The few surviving noble families from before the Conquest, including the Peverells, had abandoned their oldest traditions in favour of survival.

Those who hadn’t were slaughtered.

“In 1055, William the Conqueror came from Norman France with a contingent of both Muggle and wizarding soldiers,” Cho offered slowly, squinting as she recalled the history lessons. “He conquered England.”

“He _didn’t_ conquer Wales,” Cedric said, looking around grimly. “Wales wasn’t conquered until the reign of Henry II, more than a century later, and the Norman lords never maintained a good grip on the Welsh.” 

Aldon was suddenly reminded of a passage he had read in the journal of Lady Jane Dalmore, years ago. _Not even ten minutes later, the Polyjuice wore off and another wizard, considerably smaller than Lord Malfoy, slipped free of the binds, spat out a phrase in the harsh Celtic tongue, and fled free … His Majesty asked that we attend her Majesty more attentively, in caution for his campaign in Wales._

He would need to copy the whole account before he left Hogwarts, he resolved. Lady Dalmore and her sisters were just too useful.

“You’re saying that you know another channeling method, a second magic system,” Aldon offered, voice thoughtful. Well, this was just becoming the most interesting meeting, wasn’t it? “One which has, for the past five hundred years or so, been banned – even if the ban is only because the Ministry doesn’t believe it exists anymore and is too lazy to take it off the books.”

Cedric nodded slowly, eyeing him cautiously. “It’s still a death sentence to be caught practicing the old ways.”

Not for any real reason, though, Aldon thought disparagingly. There was little mention of the old Celtic ways, but from the little he had read, it was heavily reliant on natural magic. The things he had read suggested that it was connected more to wild magic, that the old Celts could call on the assistance of the elements, particularly the earth and trees. It was no more or less dangerous than wand magic. He nodded his acceptance, leaning back indolently in his chair.

“If it ever becomes a question of survival in the Tournament, use it,” Alex ordered. “Surviving one more day is one more day for things to change. That leaves only Rigel.”

“I hate to disappoint,” Harriett said, shrugging, her voice relaxed even as her ugly grey eyes were wary. “But other than being magically powerful and good at potions, I really don’t have anything else to say.”

There was a light murmur of disbelief around the table, sparked predominantly by the people who knew him best. The thing about Rigel was that he lied. He lied to his enemies, he lied to his closest friends. Aldon had heard Pansy and Malfoy, at times, complain about how often their friend lied, how often he hid things from them, how often he disappeared and didn’t tell anyone where he went. Rigel Black lied, and people let him lie, because their friendships with him were more important than whatever he was lying about – especially because he _was_ nice. He was inoffensive. He cared for little except for his friends and his potions, and even if he did seem to have a monumental streak of bad luck, he clearly didn’t look for it.

But this was different. This was a strategy meeting where, under Alex’s extreme privacy ward, they had openly talked about the possibility of powerful politicians trying to interfere in what should have been a game. An important, international game, but still a game, where no one was supposed to die. No one was supposed to come close to dying. And yet, someone had tried to kill someone today.

And, under the ward, the others had already revealed their secrets – secrets that were dangerous, even criminal. Alex had broken the ice by revealing that he was part-human. Aldon had revealed he had a powerful and disconcerting gift. Cedric had confessed to committing a capital crime. What could be worse?

But Harriett’s secrets _were_ worse. There were treaties protecting part-humans, and honestly, for most wizards, all Alex had to do was flash those fangs and they would yield. Aldon’s gift was powerful and disconcerting, but it was only a gift, even if it was a signal of his blood heritage for those who studied magical theory or wizarding genetics. Cedric’s use of the old Celtic ways was illegal because it was supposed to have been stamped out, because the Ministry was lazy about cleaning up the old laws. Sticking a charge of use of Celtic magic would be difficult.

Blood identity theft was different.

He stood up, pushing himself away from the table. “Alex, may I speak with Rigel privately? I’m his strategist. We won’t leave the room.”

Alex studied him for a moment, before he inclined his head in respect. “Truth-speaker.”

“Thank you.” He looked at Harriett, motioning with a tilt of his head to the back of the room, where the armchairs waited. She stared hard at him, her ugly grey eyes suspicious, but rose and followed him. He threw up a quick runic privacy ward, then cast a strong _Muffliato_ spell on top of it. One could never be too cautious with privacy wards.

He pushed her gently into the armchair across from her, and simply studied her for a minute. Her hair was mussed, probably from both the battleground and the day. Underneath her poker face, he saw shadows under her eyes from exhaustion. It had been a long day, for them all, and she was in combat this morning – and he remembered what Kowalski had told her, too. Her eyes were grey, and he still hated them because of what they were not, but they shone with suspicion and obstinance. Her hands were too loose on her lap, but he spotted small crescents where she had dug her nails in earlier that day in worry.

“You are having a very bad day, Harriett,” he observed lightly, and was gratified by the small snort she let out in response, even if her eyes narrowed at him.

“What do you want, Aldon?” she demanded, her voice harsh under the buzz Aldon felt in his core. “Or is this about your offer? I did hear about it, at length, from my father.”

Aldon’s head snapped back, as if he had been slapped. How could she possibly have thought that he would ever use his knowledge for something like that? After what he had openly told her at the Gala, too? Or what about all the other conversations, they had shared, as Rigel, as Harriett, over the last few years: the first Gala she was at, his fifth year, when he told her how he hated his parents? Their almost-closeness later that year, when the school was under the terror of the basilisk? Or the Gala, the first year he met her as Harriett, their shared laughter that evening, or the awkward intensity of this past year?

Well, now that he thought of it, the list of conversations were, he supposed, dreadfully short. It was a piss-poor excuse for a relationship, really. He was _friendly_ with her as Rigel, but he was not Malfoy. He was not Pansy. He had had two conversations with her as Harriett, and while he liked her, so much of it had been premised on the fact that _he knew her secrets_. And she didn’t know that he had known them.

He let out a long, calming, sigh, smoothing over his feelings, hiding any sign of his sudden hurt. Though, since Harriett _was_ Rigel, she probably saw it already.

“It is not about my offer,” he replied stiffly. “Which, just so you know, was at least partially because I knew that, were it known that I were pining for the elusive Potter Heiress, I would not be pushed into any _other_ arrangements right away. It is about how we are going to get through this Tournament with your life intact and, preferably, without you being arrested for blood identity theft.”

“And why would you care about that?”

“Why wouldn’t I care about that?” Aldon spread his hands. “I have told you how I feel about Society. Why did you not report me, for the things I said that night while intoxicated?”

“Because my word as a halfblood is worth only three-quarters of yours in a Wizarding Court of Law,” she fired back, grey eyes glinting.

Aldon snorted in disbelief. “You’re lying. That’s not why you didn’t report me. You didn’t report me because you don’t want to see me arrested. Just as I don’t want to see you arrested. I don’t _care_ that you broke the law to be at Hogwarts, Harriett. I like you, and I don’t want you to die: whether it be by Tournament interference, or because the SOW Party purified you.”

There was a silence to that, and Aldon let Harriett chew over his words for a few minutes. She looked up, mouth opening, and he interrupted before she could make whatever offer she wanted to make for his silence. He didn’t want to hear it.

“Alex only wants to know what you’re capable of doing – whether it is as Harriett or as Rigel, he won’t care as much. Who you are, your sex – that doesn’t matter. But you need to at least give me an accurate account of your abilities, so I can tell that to him persuasively. I don’t care how you learned what you know, but it’s obvious that you learned Dueling from someone other than Draco Malfoy, so start there. And you can cast non-verbally, so any other unexpected skills like that, too.”

She glared at him, and her eyes flickered briefly to the other team members, watching them through the privacy screen.

“I’m not telling you how I know these,” she said finally, lips pressed together in a harsh line.

“I’m not asking you to.”

“ _Fine_ ,” she snapped. “Aside from non-verbal casting, I can Apparate. I can free duel, which is why I asked for a knife. I’m a Parselmouth, and can travel through people’s cores. And since all of _Harry Potter’s_ potions inventions are mine, I obviously can make them, but I’m only going to stick to the published theory.”

Aldon listened, keeping a worried line from appearing between his eyes when she mentioned free dueling with effort. Where would the Book of Gold heiress of House Potter learn such a brutal skill? But he had said he wouldn’t ask, so he didn’t, even if he was burning with curiosity. He could always find that out later.

“Anything else?”

She paused, thinking, her head tilted up. “No, nothing,” she said finally, and his gift confirmed that she, at least, believed that to be true.

“Then let me handle Alex.” Aldon stood, dismissing the _Muffliato_ spell but taking his time unravelling his privacy ward. For all his words, he was nervous. He had never known Alex, it seemed, even if his friend’s words, combined with his gift, told him that Alex meant them no harm. And Ed, too, would be far tenser if there was anything worrying about Alex being a dhampir. Ed had, in fact, been one of the first to relax, as soon as Alex had confirmed he was part of the Order in the Balkans – Aldon had felt the tension seep out of him slowly as he let his grip on Aldon’s shoulder lapse.

The last of his wards faded away, snapping as light, and Aldon purposely relaxed his shoulders, walking back to the table. Harriett was a few steps behind him, and she lingered as he stopped by Alex’s shoulder, one hand on the back of his chair.

“Aside from non-verbal casting, which he demonstrated in his duel with Kowalski today, and his skills generally known from previous years, Rigel can Apparate, and he can free duel with a knife. He is also intimately familiar with his cousin’s potions work, but out of respect for her, he will only make the potions that she has published thus far.” Aldon pulled out his chair, meaning to sit in it again, perhaps with a sigh, but Alex’s hand stopped him.

“Is that everything?” Alex asked, his voice whisper-soft. His blazing summer-blue eyes studied him, the emotion in them hard to read.

“Everything of importance, Alex. Everything else is irrelevant.” Aldon narrowed his eyes slightly, returning Alex’s stern gaze with his own fiery orange one, willing his friend to believe him. The moments ticked by – each of them was waiting to see who would break first, who would concede the unspoken battle.

“Would you swear it?”

Aldon licked suddenly dry lips, thinking fast.

The fact that Rigel Black was actually Harriett Potter was almost certainly irrelevant to the Tournament. They were one and the same, Rigel Black and Harriett Potter – the only lies were blood status, and sex. Whoever was interfering in the Tournament was focusing on _Rigel Black,_ and it didn’t matter that _Rigel Black_ was also _Harriett Potter_. Her secrets harmed only her, only her and her cousin, not the rest of them. Probably.

There was a risk, there was always a risk, but he felt Harriett’s eyes on him, heavy in their intensity.

“What do you want me to swear on? My magic?”

Alex snorted, but his summer-blue eyes didn’t waver an iota. “Nothing so mundane. Muggle lives these days are quite comfortable, you know. And they have better music.” He paused for a moment, a half-smile lingering on his lips. “Swear on your blood.”

Aldon shouldn’t have been surprised, even as he felt a chill of fear descend from the crown of his head. Magic, for most modern witches and wizards, was life, but swearing on magic only lost you your magic. Swearing on blood meant that, if he lied on this, his life would be forfeit, should Alex choose to take it. And, from the little he understood of Alex now, the dhampir cared about _life_ far more than about _magic_.

There was a risk. There were always possible unseen consequences. But it was Alex, and Aldon knew Alex, or he thought he did before, and the Alex he knew would _probably_ not hold any unforeseeable consequences against him. Probably.

“I assume you have a knife, then,” Aldon said, his voice dry, even as he felt Ed grab the back of his robes, heard a hiss in his ear. He ignored him.

“I rarely go without,” his friend said, pulling one out of his boot and standing. What was with all of his friends walking around armed, anyway? “You’ll swear, then? Rigel’s secrets are worth this to you, Truth-speaker?”

“I will,” Aldon replied, hearing Harriett’s gasp of shock behind him. He snapped his hand backwards, a sharp rap to tell her to shut up. He was busy. “They are.”

“Then let’s do it.” Alex shook out his left wrist from his robes, unbuttoning the pearly buttons holding his cuff around his wrist and pulling the sleeve up. Aldon saw rows of scarring along the arm, patterns of past oaths. His friend scored another red line in the forest with one deft movement, and passed the knife to Aldon. Aldon felt Ed tugging the back of his robes, but he shook him off and kept his eyes on the dhampir, taking the knife.

He shook his own wrist out of his sleeve, unbuttoning his own cuff with numb fingers. The cut was easier than he thought it would be – Alex’s knife was sharp. He stretched his arm across the small expanse, felt the magical link form as soon as they gripped forearms, as soon as their blood touched. He picked his words carefully.

Harriett Potter was Rigel Black. Her cousin was _Arcturus_ Rigel Black. There was a difference, and he concentrated, hard, on that difference.

“I swear that the secret I keep on behalf of Rigel Black causes no harm to the players of this Tournament,” he said slowly, his eyes trained on his friend’s burning blue eyes.

“So mote it be.”

And fire ripped through his veins.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is still one of my favourite chapters. Aldon is such a nerd! He's good at being a nerd! And drunk Aldon is always a favourite (yes, he does have a problem), and he meets Archie for the first time, and dances with Harry, and then secrets! Revealed! Then Aldon does something stupid. I had a theory when I was writing being that Aldon would not generally do stupid things, but when they did, they had to be epic levels of stupid. 
> 
> Lily's songs are inspired by "Unchain Utopia" by Epica (for the earthquake song), and "White Waters" by Epica, "Come Cover Me" and "Ever Dream" by Nightwish (for the Siren song).


	5. Chapter 5

“Rigel!” 

Harriett barely paused to greet at her friends, waiting for her in the common room.

“Sorry,” she said, voice clipped, leading Aldon across the crowded common room towards the private study rooms, picking out the smallest one. “I still have something I need to discuss with Rosier. I’ll be along shortly.”

She shut the door with perhaps a little more force than necessary, then threw a _Muffliato_ spell on the door. Aldon blew out a resigned breath, taking out his wand and weaving yet another runic privacy ward. It spilled out of his wand with a little difficulty – he was still shaky, or so he felt, and his use of magic that day had not been light. He was drained: emotionally, magically, even physically, but he couldn’t have Harriett spilling out her secrets without the strongest of wards he knew how to cast.

“What was that about, Rosier?” she snapped, grey eyes flashing.

Aldon sighed, a deep sigh of bone-deep tiredness. He wanted a drink. “If we _must_ have this conversation now, would you mind, at least, dropping your voice alteration spell? It makes my core buzz, you see, and the sensation is not a pleasant one.”

She glared at him mutinously for a moment, before pointing her wand at her throat and muttering a counter-curse. It was not, he was pleased to see, _Finite Incantatem,_ though if it were, surely she would have been caught already. “Is that better?”

“It is, thank you,” Aldon sighed again, this one of relief, pulling out the chair across from her. It was nice to hear her true voice – a light alto, melodic, even when it was near growling in anger. “You didn’t want your secret told, and you must admit that it would be difficult to keep a secret at Hogwarts if there were eight people, aside from you and me, that knew it already. Your secrets won’t harm the Tournament players, which is all that Alex cared about anyway. Alex trusts me because I am one of his closest friends, and because I am a Truth-speaker, which is why he allowed it to pass at all.” He paused, looking her over carefully – mussed hair, sharp grey eyes, stern frown, and his voice was almost hurt when he continued. “You _could_ thank me, you know.”

She snorted skeptically, but a second later, she tilted her head towards him in grudging acknowledgement. “Thank you, Aldon.”

Her voice was good. It even sounded genuine. But it wasn’t good enough. “Even your thanks are a lie, but I’ll take it, since it’s only half of one.” Aldon tilted his lips in a sour half-smile. “It’s all right. I’m used to it.”

“How long have you known?”

“Not as long as you would think.” Aldon looked around the tiny study room, and saw his warding gather and flicker at the door. Someone was trying to eavesdrop – probably one of Harriett’s friends. He narrowed his eyes, concentrating on having his ward _throw_ them off, and he was satisfied with the soft noise of pain from outside the room. It sounded like Malfoy. “Since the first time I met you as Harriett. The feeling of your glamour spell is distinctive.”

She pressed her lips together. “Who else knows?”

Aldon raised an eyebrow and glared right back at her. “No one has heard it from me, believe it or not. I know what it’s like to keep secrets.”

Her eyes were stormy as she worked her way through her next question, a tic working in her cheek. “Then why?”

“Because you didn’t want it to be known, because it’s _better_ for as few people to know as possible, and because I don’t want to see you killed in the Tournament _or_ executed for blood identity theft. Because, of all things, I like you,” Aldon snapped, leaning back in his chair, tucking his hands into his pockets, one eye still on his wards. “Take your pick, Harriett. Any of them will do, they’re all true.”

She sighed heavily. By the dark expression on her face, Aldon guessed that none of his answers were truly satisfactory, but there was nothing else he could tell her. That was as complete of an answer as he could give. He crossed his arms, meeting her eyes for a few long minutes, because she obviously was not finished.

“So, what do I have to do to make sure you keep it secret, then?” she asked, her voice deadly serious. “What do you want from me, Aldon?”

He should have seen this coming. He _had_ seen it coming, but it didn’t make the question any less hurtful when it came. He jerked himself out of his chair, pulling himself to his feet. He was not here to make deals – he was here at her pleasure, to make her feel better, and nothing more.

He was tired, and he wanted a drink.

“Really, Harriett? I just bled for you, on the promise of _nothing_ ,” he snapped, stalking towards door and pulling out his wand to tear down the wards. “I would hope that counted for _something_ , but I suppose not. Do remember to put your voice alteration spell back on before you leave – I’m sure your _friends_ are worried, and I’d hate for my sacrifice to be meaningless.”

With that, he dismissed his warding, rearranged his face into a semblance of normalcy, and walked out into the crowded common room. They were staring, as he knew they would be – they had watched AIM take Hogwarts into the dirt, and then they had heard nothing from the players for the rest of the day. They wanted to know what happened, how this could have happened, and Aldon was in no mood to deal with it.

“My apologies,” he said with a tired, gentle, and entirely insincere but well-faked smile. “But it’s been a long day for us, especially for Rigel, who was dueling this morning. Would you mind keeping your questions to another time?”

He turned towards the seventh-year dorms, marking a direct line across the common room to them, heedless of the continued staring. Some of them, Adrian and Lucian among them, were slowly trying to pull their Housemates’ attentions to other pursuits, and even through his mental exhaustion, Aldon was grateful. They would no doubt ask him questions later, but as long as it was later, Aldon could deal with it. Later.

Ed was waiting in their room, as Aldon knew he would be. His best friend’s face was a thundercloud – Aldon hadn’t looked at him throughout the swearing process, merely shaking him off, and they had wrapped up so quickly after that. To be honest, Aldon barely remembered what happened after he had sworn the oath – he had been too relieved that he had passed, that he hadn’t died. He thought that he had sat down, fixing his sleeve over his fresh oath-scar under the table as Alex announced their new training regimen. He had taken pains to avoid the others’ stares, keeping his eyes fixed firmly on the table in front of him.

Ed stalked towards him, crossing the distance between them in three long strides. For a moment, Ed simply held him by the shoulders, just looking him over. Aldon half-smiled up at his friend – he had seen better days, he was sure.

“You are an idiot,” Ed said finally, wrapping him in a firm hug. “An absolute and complete idiot. I want to hit you.”

“It had to be done, Ed,” Aldon said, leaning into the hug for reassurance. Ed’s physical affection was rare, but it was like a beam of fresh sunlight through the clouds. He really was the best at hugs. “You don’t know why, and I can’t explain why, but it had to be done. Trust me. It wasn’t as dangerous as it seemed – even if my reasoning was wrong, Alex – I don’t think Alex wouldn’t have claimed my life as penance. It’s just a scar, Edmund. It’s nothing.”

Ed sighed, and released him, looking him over again. “I have to trust you with Rigel, but with Alex… well.” He coughed, clearing his throat.

Aldon nodded, feeling the wards working. It _didn’t_ stop them talking about it, but it did, at the same time. It was a _reminder_ , just as Alex had said.

“Be careful with Alex, Aldon,” Ed said, his voice serious, but turning back into their dormitory and sitting on his bed. “The Order… and their members, they are dangerous.”

Aldon flopped bonelessly onto his bed, too. “I have no doubt,” he replied dryly, “but it was Alex. I _know_ Alex, Ed. He might be my closest friend, aside from you. But you have something you want to say, so… ” He fluttered his hand in the air – not the one with the fresh scar, which was lying loosely on his belly.

“Do you know anything about the Order?” Ed pried.

“Nothing at all,” Aldon said, staring up at the velvet, emerald-green roof of his four-poster. The way the fabric shone in the light was always soothing to him. “A bit more your area of expertise, isn’t it?”

In the pause, Aldon could imagine his friend ducking his head slightly in acknowledgement. He didn’t need to watch him do it to know he had. “Admittedly, not much about them is known. They are very secretive, their numbers are small, and they live mainly in eastern Europe. The vast majority of dhampir are Muggles, though a few wizard and witch dhampir have been recorded. You pass by mention of them sometimes in vampire hunter records – they inherit speed and strength from their vampire forebears, and they heal quickly. More to the point, they also inherit the thirst.”

“Do they?” Aldon asked tiredly, and he could hardly bring himself to care. So what if Alex thirsted for blood? Aldon had been in a room alone with him two or three times a week for more than a year, and nothing had happened.

“They do. They also swear by an extremely strict code of conduct – any dhampir caught partaking in blood is immediately court-martialed and usually executed, if they don’t commit ritual suicide first.”

“So there’s nothing to worry about, then,” Aldon replied easily. “You saw his oath-scars. He’s no harm to us, Edmund, even if he is a …. Well, no matter what he is.”

Ed shook his head gravely. “It’s not that, Aldon – dhampir are sworn to protect people, both wizarding and Muggle, which is probably why … _he_ was so harsh today.” Another cough. “As a trainer, I can hardly think of anyone better. Dhampir train with all kinds of weapons from when they are children – I would not be shocked to hear that, aside from blades and Muggle weaponry, he could wield any number of other weapons. Dhampir must, because vampires hunt them down mercilessly. He was right in saying that our vampire population here is tamed – since they are not native, only the oldest covens, those tired of war and bloodshed and the hunt, come here. They are much more violent where he comes from.

“But, my point in telling you this is that his _principles_ are very different than ours. The Dhampir Codes are … implacable. They hold honour and duty very highly, and you saw his oath-scars.” Ed paused, then completed his thought coolly. “Had you been wrong, I don’t think he would have let you live.”

An uncomfortable silence bled around them, and Aldon’s right hand fell, almost without thought, onto his left wrist. He couldn’t feel the scar, underneath his robes and his shirt cuffs, but he knew it was there.

The fire that had ripped through his veins was hot, harsh, judgemental. It weighed him, it said, and it measured the truth of his oath. For one long, terrifying second, Aldon had feared that he was wrong – that his wording had been wrong, that there was something he hadn’t accounted for. But it passed, blowing through him, burning away the cut and leaving a fresh scar in its path, and he had known that he, too, had passed. And Alex had looked at him, something like respect in his warm, summer-blue eyes, and for the first time in a very long time, perhaps the first time in his seventeen years of life, Aldon felt _alive_.

“Then I’m glad that I wasn’t wrong, Edmund. Do we have any Firewhiskey?”

XXX

Alex’s new training regimen was brutal.

The next day, while Ron and Cho were in the strategy room watching the ICW and Patagonia match and taking notes, Aldon was out on the Quidditch pitch, shivering in the snow. Straight after breakfast, he had gone out on the pitch with Alex, meeting the other players, and he had woven yet another privacy ward – not a simple one, this time, nor a vicious one. This was a more sophisticated ward, one that blocked both sight and sound and magic. He was still hooked into it, sitting half in meditation and watching to make sure that no one approached, but enough of his attention was free that he could still watch the duels.

Alex had pounded his way though Cedric and Angelina in nearly no time at all. He didn’t have time to teach the two of them any free dueling – there was simply no way, he said, that he could even begin with the rudiments of any weapon in time for either of them.

Angelina, he decided, had to work on her mobility. She was already fast and mobile, having passed the second task with the dragons on her speed, reflexes, and her use of small mobility spells – a jump spell here or there, course alterations by spell deflection, periodic but sparing speed spells. But he put her through her paces by throwing Stinging Hexes at her for fifteen minutes with his preternaturally quick wand work, refusing to stop until she had been hit at least five times.

“It’s to teach you how to work through pain,” he said, entirely serious even as she cursed a blue streak at him.

Cedric was harder. He was already strong on both his offensive and defensive charms, but Alex wanted him to draw on _Celtic_ magics as well as the regular, school-taught curriculum. It would be surprises, he snapped at him, that would save him, and yet another _Impedimenta_ or _Stupefy_ or _Flipendo_ was not surprising in the least. But the Celtic magics, so long practiced and developed in hiding, were not easily adapted to dueling, and Cedric was not used to casting them in an active situation. The incantations, in Old Welsh, slipped from his mind at critical moments.

“It’s like thinking in two languages at the same time, while dueling,” Cedric explained, exhausted and slumped on the grass, after three rounds. “My Welsh isn’t even that good, and the elements won’t listen to me.”

“Then figure it out,” Alex replied, unmoved. “You have a week until the next match.”

So Cedric was sitting in the grass, cross-legged, in meditation, while Harriett finally got her turn.

She crouched, in a lower dueling stance than the one Draco had taught them, a knife held in her right hand, reversed with the blade blocking her forearm, while she kept her wand in her left. Alex, too, had pulled his knife, and had adopted a similar stance, his knife pointing forwards as they faced off. For several long minutes, they simply stared, eyes locked, shifting position occasionally. Alex moved forward a step, and she skipped sideways a few steps, and they circled each other warily for another few minutes.

She tried sending a Stunning spell at him, but even Aldon could tell that it was a test strike, just feeling out his defenses, without any real heart behind it. Alex just sidestepped it, a quick dodge that should have seemed at odds with his size and build and yet, wasn’t. He moved with a peculiar grace, a fluid sharpness that, for all of its edges, seemed to work. She tried a few more spells, here and there, and even once chained three spells together, but Alex simply dodged them.

When Alex finally moved in to attack, he was fast, aggressive. He threw a series of spells at her: _Impedimenta, Expelliarmus, Stupefy, Depulso, Flipendo_ , Aldon thought. Harriett dodged each one, her eyes narrowed in concentration, which Aldon had expected, but Alex used the barrage to close distance and his knife was sweeping down at her in a cold crescent.

She spotted it long before the last possible second, leaping out of the way, and bringing her own knife into play with a large sweep. Alex, too, leapt backwards, and she followed up on her advantage with another unspoken spell, _Bombarda_ , it looked like.

She missed, because Alex suddenly wasn’t there, but was instead behind her, his knife sweeping in for another blow, but she threw herself forward, rolling on the ground and twisting onto her feet, sending a rumble of a strong vibration spell through the ground at Alex’s feet. He leapt over the wave, but landed on a patch of ice that she had Transfigured into the ground, and he slipped, falling on his bottom even as he threw up a _Fortis_ spell to stop her launching herself at him with the knife. He was lucky – she hadn’t launched herself at him, but had instead sent another spell at him, but it was absorbed harmlessly.

“Very nice,” Alex said, a note of approval in his voice and he got to his feet faster than Aldon would have thought possible. Then again, speed was a dhampir strength. “Whoever trained you has my compliments.”

“I’ll be sure to pass along the message,” Harriett replied, a ghost of a smile on her face, before taking the offensive again.

They exchanged blows and spells for another fifteen minutes or so. Harriett _was_ good at free-dueling, from what Aldon could tell, though she aimed to play from a distance and relied more on her magic. Seeing such, Alex forced close quarters as much as possible, which gave him the advantage of height, weight and speed, and even Aldon could tell that he was a much better knife fighter. She only blocked a few blows with her own knife, clearly preferring to duck and dodge and roll out of the way when she could, and gritting her teeth hard when she had no choice but to take a blow on her own blade, braced on her forearm. With Alex’s speed, though, it was hard for her to break away and make the distance she needed, and she pulled on tricks like the _Fortis_ spell with abandon to shove him backwards. In an actual match, he guessed that she would Apparate – that was probably where she had learned the skill – but not knowing whether the Hogwarts Anti-Apparition Wards held, she couldn’t resort to it.

Something flickered, at the edges of his attention, and he closed his eyes, focusing outwards. The best Wardmasters, it was said, could construct a powerful ward and then leave it, disconnecting themselves from it and leaving the ward behind, but Aldon hadn’t mastered the skill. And, even if he did, he wasn’t sure he would trust himself to – he had so much more control over the wards when he was still hooked into them, when he was still a _part_ of them.

It was Malfoy and Pansy, the former with a rather annoyed look on his face and the latter looking perfectly serene. Aldon held tightly onto his wards, layered over the Quidditch pitch – they wouldn’t see them, if he didn’t want them to. Neither would Harriett see them, but then, she didn’t need the distraction. She was plenty occupied with Alex’s blade flashing towards her.

“Where could he have gone?” Malfoy was saying, the tone of his voice distinctly annoyed. “He was gone all yesterday, and then he didn’t want to talk about it at all, and now he disappears? I didn’t see Diggory, or Johnston, this morning either.”

Pansy shrugged, shaking her head. “Maybe they have another meeting. It was a hard loss, yesterday – they’re probably working on a new strategy. I heard from Millie that AIM succeeded on their appeal, so the official game result is 5-0.”

Malfoy sighed heavily, turning back to the entrance to the pitch. “I hate to admit it, but that’s fair. Still embarrassing, but Rigel would do better to rest and recover from yesterday. They’re not here – let’s go back.”

Aldon blinked slowly, almost sleepily, shifting his attention back to the fight in front of him. Harriett was still holding her own, though she was struggling without Apparition to help her. He mentally ran through his own ward, as well as checking the Hogwarts wards; no, the Anti-Apparition wards were still in effect, out here. Anti-Apparition wards came in four basic types: open wards, which allowed Apparition out, but not in; closed wards, which allowed Apparition in, but not out; incomplete wards, which forbade travel both in and out but permitted them within the ward; and complete wards, which forbade travel in, out, and within the boundaries. The Hogwarts wards were complete ones. Hooked into his wards as he was, Aldon thought he might be able to change a few of those parameters, but he had no way of telling Harriett if he did, so he left them alone.

He didn’t know how he felt, yet, about this newly discovered skill of hers, but he did know one thing: Malfoy was wrong. Harriett didn’t need rest, not with that expression of fierce concentration and joy on her face. It was the sort of interest, the sort of passion he normally only saw from her when she was thinking about Potions. It was obvious that Harriett _enjoyed_ free-dueling, enjoyed the rapid exchange of spell-fire with physical attacks. Aldon didn’t like the fact that she knew how to free duel – as far as he was concerned, dueling was not a skill that women should need to have, let alone free-dueling – but neither could he deny that she was both good at it and that it was a useful skill for someone in her position to have.

“All right, halt,” Alex said eventually, holding one hand up and signalling her to stop. He was breathing heavily, as was Harriett, and Aldon was almost pleased to see that, if Harriett _had_ to free duel, at least she was able to put his friend through his paces. “I have a good sense of your ability, now. Again, my compliments to your instructor.”

A small, genuine, smile flickered over her face. “He’ll be glad to hear it.”

“But,” Alex continued, sheathing his knife back in his boot, “you have your weaknesses. You rely heavily on your magic, and use your knife mainly to invoke fear, or as a last-resort defense. You don’t use it as a weapon, and while you’re excellent at taking advantages of openings created by someone else’s attack on you, you are not good at creating an opening in and of itself. Your knife-work is slipshod and messy – if you ever came into a situation where you _needed_ to fight in close quarters, you would lose.”

Harriett listened, nodding. She didn’t look defensive, which was interesting. She must be used to this sort of criticism, wherever she had learned the skill. “My teacher said, and I quote, “You are not a knife-fighter,”” she agreed, with a twist of her lips at the memory. “He made me repeat it, over and over again.”

Alex smiled. It was a small smile, but a genuine one, and not the tight ones that Aldon had seen before. It showed his fangs, not as a threat, but just because they were there. “And that’s what we’re going to fix. Stow your wand with your bag. Your basic footwork and mobility are fine, and you have a good base. We’ll turn you into a knife-fighter.”

He waited for Harriett to put her wand away in her bag, which was sitting beside Aldon. Aldon half-closed his eyes, ignoring her entirely, keeping his breathing smooth and even – he wasn’t _entirely_ entranced, but after their argument last night, he didn’t want to talk to her, not even a short, casual exchange. He just wasn’t in the mood.

He understood why she had tried to bargain with him. She was a Slytherin – like all Slytherins, she balked when she didn’t know what was on the table. He had kept this secret for her for more than a year, now, without extracting any kind of payment other than his own interest, his own entertainment. And last night, he had bled for her, had risked his life for her and her secrets, and he hadn’t asked for anything then, either. In another time, in another Aldon, he would have wondered, too. Why was he doing this? Slytherins did not keep secrets for free, and he was a Slytherin.

He didn’t know entirely, yet. Part of it was that the ruse was _interesting_ , and certainly, that was where it had started. It had gone so far past that, now. He did like her, honestly, he did – he had liked her when she was Rigel, even when he was hunting her secrets, and he liked her just as much when she was Harriett. She was light and dark, ice and fire, emotionless on one hand and then, suddenly, fiercely passionate, and the contrast was a thing of beauty. She was smart, she was witty, she was delightfully dry and acerbic when she wanted to be. There was so much to like about her.

But that wasn’t entirely it, either. No, Aldon _admired_ her. He wanted to be like her – he wanted to want something so badly that he would do something as crazy as she had done, to want something so much that he forced mountains to bow to his will. He had had a life planned out for him, and it was a good life. But it was also an enclosed life, a life of lies and emptiness, a life that didn’t feel like a life – and, more than anything, he wanted to _live_. And if there was one thing Harriett always did, it was _live_.

He didn’t know entirely, yet, but he knew that he wanted nothing from her, or nothing that she could give – nothing except, perhaps, want itself. He wanted what she wanted: he wanted her to achieve that dream that had brought her to this point, to protect that intense desire that brought her to switch places with her cousin, break the law, and come to Hogwarts. In these circumstances, turning the secret he kept into a trade, into a bargain, into some kind of _deal_ , was perverse, and he would not accept it.

Harriett returned to the centre of the warded circle, where Alex waited, her knife held loosely in one hand. Aldon cast a quick glance around – Angelina had recovered from the stinging hexes, and was practicing footwork on the ground, while Cedric was still deep in meditation.

“You use the reverse hammer grip quite often, which is fine from a defensive angle, but which I would not recommend if you need to bring your knife into play,” Alex said, showing Harriett the grip with which he held his knife. “While it braces the blade on your forearm for extra strength, if you misjudge someone’s hit by even a few inches, you’ll bleed. More importantly, it will slow your reaction to get the knife into a position to hit anyone with. I prefer the forward hammer grip.”

Harriett changed her grip on her knife to imitate his, turning her blade outwards. As far as Aldon could tell, it was the same, but his friend leaned over and corrected it, shifting her fingers around it so she held it more with her last three fingers rather than her index and middle fingers.

“Now, a knife has six angles of attack: vertically down, a forward diagonal strike, a reverse diagonal strike, forward horizontal strike, reverse horizontal strike, and the forward thrust.” He demonstrated each of the moves for her, bringing his knife in careful arcs demonstrating the straight down slash, two angled slashes, from her shoulder to her hip, two horizontal strikes, which would have cut across her stomach, and a thrust, which he aimed at her solar plexus. He moved slowly, showing her how his hand and body moved and how his grip shifted through each one. “Keep your movements small. Since you don’t have much experience in pure knife-fighting, you’ve developed a tendency to overextend your strikes, since you only slash when you don’t know what to do. With a knife, you should be slashing within a box formed by your opponent’s shoulders and his hips – anything more is unnecessary and opens you to attack. Finally, a forward slash should _always_ be followed by a reverse slash, because the reverse slash brings you back into a neutral stance. _Never_ slash just once.”

Aldon watched as Harriett copied the movements. From his perspective, she was a good mimic and a quick study, but Alex corrected her grip, her foot angle, her posture, several times. He had her go through the movements on both her left and right sides, then had her repeat them, over and over.

“I will show you two pattern dances for the knife – one for a one-on-one duel, one for a one-on-many. You’ll need to practice them at _least_ twice a day, on each side,” he said finally, satisfied that she was picking up the correct form. “Only once they are so ingrained in you that they become a muscle memory will it even occur to you to use them in a fight.”

He spent far longer with Harriett than he had with either Angelina or Cedric, though he still somehow found the energy for another round with the other two. None of them had improved much, that day, but Alex didn’t seem too concerned. As he said, he only hoped for a minor improvement before the next two matches. However, since it seemed that _someone_ intended on interfering in the Tournament, he intended that they would be as prepared as he could make them.

XXX

Aldon shouldn’t have been surprised by his teammates’ reactions to him. He had even expected it – one did not swear a blood-oath before witnesses these days, not without causing a stir. They couldn’t openly talk about it – apparently, even if the outdated ward Alex made him cast didn’t prevent _him_ from admitting that he had sworn a blood-oath, it did prevent the others from talking about it directly. Cedric treated him _too_ normally, almost, while Angelina had studied him openly. The other two strategists had glanced at him curiously, on and off, while they explained the outcome of the ICW and Patagonia match. Harriett, for the moment, was ignoring him.

“It was close,” Ron said, casting another look at Aldon, which he politely ignored. “Patagonia won, 3 to 1. They have one very powerful player – they’re using an overwhelming strategy. I’m not sure how strong their other two players are, they didn’t seem to do much, from what I saw. They were on Lake – the players start on opposite sides of a lake, about the size of the Black Lake. Brooms would be helpful on it, but they didn’t have any. ICW ended up abandoning their side entirely. They picked off one of the Patagonia players before they got overwhelmed and wiped out.”

“ICW is working as a close-knit team,” Cho added, throwing her own, much more discreet, speculative glance towards Aldon. “They aren’t separating at all throughout the game. When we play them, we’ll have to be careful not to be caught alone and unawares.”

Those reactions were expected, but it was the twins’ reactions which surprised him the most. It was the Wednesday after their first match that they finally caught up with him, approaching him from behind as he finished his Ancient Runes class, each swinging an arm over his shoulders.

“Well, if it isn’t our good friend Aldon,” said one cheerfully, steering him towards the Great Hall.

“That it is,” said the other, reaching over and _almost_ ruffling Aldon’s hair. He would have, if Aldon hadn’t cast a hard glare at him before he had done so. It had taken him a good thirty minutes that morning to arrange it just the way he liked it, and if they mussed it, he would hex them, detention or not. They were taller than him, curse them – Aldon wasn’t tall, as wizards went, and for the most part it didn’t bother him _so_ much. Still, no one ever ruffled Ed’s hair. Or Alex’s.

“Weasleys,” Aldon acknowledged. He couldn’t actually tell them apart – frankly, he had never really tried. They did not run in the same circles. “Good to see you, but I need to meet Alex on the grounds now, so if you could make it quick?”

“And how is our illustrious leader?” said the one on his left.

“Strict,” Aldon half-smiled. Alex had the other players out on the grounds with him for a couple hours after classes every night, and he was also clear that they were to be practicing whatever he had assigned them on top of that. He was hardest on Harriett, perhaps, but then, she was the youngest and she showed the most promise in something he could teach. Angelina was making the most progress, of the three of them – even Aldon could tell that her reflexes had improved. Since they were practicing illegal techniques, though, Aldon had to be out there for every practice, to set up the privacy wards and to monitor them, to ensure no one saw for certain what they were doing. He was sure that some of the professors, not least Dumbledore, suspected that something was different, but he wasn’t sure they would care.

“Not surprised,” said the one on his right. “But, Aldon, we were thinking…”

“God forbid.”

“You’re not a bad sort,” finished the one on his left. “Your reputation notwithstanding.”

“I’m glad to hear it.” He shot the one on his left a puzzled look.

“You just need someone to help you manage your image,” the one on his right said. It was clearly planned, and Aldon shot him a look, too. Oh, no. Oh, _god_ , no.

“It’ll take some work,” the one on his left agreed, nodding. “We’ll need to think about it. Something appropriately … appreciative. For what you did for our puppy." 

Aldon snorted, breaking away from the twins in the Entrance Hall, heading outside. “A simple thank you is enough. Don’t trouble yourselves on my account.”

Had he really expected that to work? Of course, he hadn’t, he realized, as the glitter and confetti rained over his spot at the dinner table that night, getting all over his steak and potatoes. He staunchly ignored the letters, _MVP,_ shiny red and glittering, hanging over his head. He lasted long enough for one of the twins to get on a table and begin to proclaim in loud, ostentatious tones why, exactly, Aldon Rosier had been the team’s most valuable player during the last game, before he swung his legs out from under the table and made a quick escape.

It wasn’t fast enough, not quite, and Aldon was quite certain his face was rosy in embarrassment by the time he made it out. He pressed his hands on his face, out in the Entrance Hall; his face was hot, but there was also something like a smile on his face. He banished it, shaking his head at his own sentimentality. What nonsense.

Ed brought him back something from the table, as he knew he would. It wasn’t much – a roast beef sandwich – but it was enough to tide him over until the morning, at least.

XXX

Hogwarts’ next match was on Saturday night, and it was against the United Academy of the International Confederation of Wizards. They were playing on City, that time – for that game, the most interesting thing, for Aldon, was the battleground.

He had never seen a building like that before. It was tall, even by wizarding standards: six stories, not including the basement and rooftop. The building design itself was ugly, blocky and square, though windows lined the entire length and width of every floor of the building. Since they were playing the night game, though, the only light the players would have were the moon, the stars, and their own wand-lights.

The Hogwarts team started in the basement, which made Ron frown, especially because the ICW team – two boys and a girl, all tall and fit – were starting on the rooftop. They had the advantage, coming down, given the multiple sets of stairs that needed to be traversed. 

It was pitch-dark in the basement, and when Cedric cast his Lumos charm, separating the tiny light from his wand tip to sail close to the ceilings, Aldon could see that the expanse was mostly empty. There was a row of metal containers at one end of the floor, and large pillars, evenly spaced, held up the rest of the building. It was haunting, the wand-light casting shadows into the damp, cold, stone, box. In one corner of the room, Aldon could just make out the haunting blue light from outside, a set of stairs.

“All right, team,” Ron said to his orb. This time, the three strategists had arranged themselves closer to each other, and were bunched together on the side of the table with the best view of the image orb. It would save time on communication and allow all the players to hear all that was said, as long as they were all triggered. Aldon examined the map provided to them and winced – it would be a race to the middle.

“Predictably, the ICW keystone is on the rooftop, so you need to hike your way up. There are six floors between the basement and the rooftop, and there is only one set of stairs going up and one set going down on each floor. The trick is, the sets of stairs going up and down are always at the opposite side of each floor – it’s designed to force a standoff. Based on their last performance, they’ll be sticking together – on a map like this, that’ll work to their advantage.” Ron grinned, hearing his commentary coming over the image orb, two beats after him. Aldon knew from experience how distracting that was, even if it was interesting to hear. “Good thing we can do the same. Game plan, everyone.”

Harriett didn’t acknowledge the instructions; there was no need. She pulled out one of her protection potions and poured a circle around the Hogwarts keystone. She pulled out her wand and threw a quick _Confringo_ at it, nodding as the ward flickered into existence, absorbing the spell. She exchanged a glance with Angelina and Cedric, and all three began cautiously making their way across the desolate floor, heading to the first level.

Aldon was pleased to see the image orb cut to the ICW team, who were making their way to the small, box-like structure protruding from the rooftop like a blunt, lonely, crenellation. The entire potion and ward sequence had been shown on the image orbs, and he heard one of the ICW strategists unleash a stream of rapid-fire, concerned French. They were describing what had happened, he thought – French last name and his mother’s general love of French culture aside, he had never quite gotten the hang of the language. They were talking about _le clé_ , which he remembered was _the_ _key_ , _ils ont fait quelque chose avec leur clé, ignorez-le et concentrez sur l’équipe d’Hogwarts_.

The next thirty minutes were dull. Every floor was broken by thin, short, fabric walls into smaller squares, with desks and chairs, almost mazelike. But it was worse than a simple maze, because even if they could _see_ the opposite stairwell they were aiming for, they were often stymied getting there. The walls were thin, and while they _could_ blast them out of the way (Harriett was the first to try), and Angelina could skip over most of the walls, Ron ruled that they shouldn’t waste the power. Between the irritating sameness of every floor, and the darkness, Aldon could hardly help but be completely disoriented.

It was in the fifth-floor stairwell that they were ambushed, the ICW team using the advantage of their higher ground to rain spells down on them, and the battle was short and furious. Since both schools had thrown their entire teams into the melee, neither side had an advantage by numbers, and the terrain advantage was aptly made up by skill. Angelina stood out from the others in this match, using an efficient jump-spell to throw herself in the air and take out the first ICW player with a well-placed stunner, winning her the twins’ _MVP_ award that night.  With three on two odds, it wasn’t long before the other two fell, though not before one managed to Stun Cedric, for a solid 3-1 win.

Even with a win under their belts, and no evidence of any interference in their game, Alex didn’t let up on their training regimen. He was hardest on Cedric, who had, in his view, could have easily dodged the Stun spell.

“Alex, you need to _calm down_ ,” Cedric snapped, uncommonly sharp, after twenty minutes of dodging practice in which he was hit sixteen times – which both Harriett and Angelina had survived, even at Alex’s top dhampir speed, with only six hits between them. “It was a Stunner! Rigel revived me the minute the game was called, none of our Healers got called in, and we still won!”

“And if it wasn’t a Stunner?” Alex demanded in reply, casting another Stinging Hex at him. “What if it wasn’t a Stunner, but the Cutting curse with a combined anti-blood-clotting hex? Or a torture curse? Or _Avada Kedavra_?”

Cedric muttered something about how it was only a game, while dodging out of the way.

“I heard that, Ced,” Alex replied, throwing another spell at Cedric’s feet. “Just because there wasn’t any interference yesterday doesn’t mean there won’t be any next game. And if we make it into the eliminations, some of the other schools, too, have reputations.”

There was another mutter, this one quieter, while Cedric focused on dodging. The grass at his feet was waving slightly, in a wind that wasn’t quite there, but it didn’t seem to be helping him at all.

“Speaking of which, Alex,” Angelina called out, rising to her feet from the bench where she had been taking a break, and waving her hand to interrupt, her face uncommonly serious. She had one hand one her ear, touching her communication link to Ron. The other two strategists were holed up, once again, in the strategy room, watching the planned AIM-Patagonia match, and while the players didn’t _normally_ wear their links, Alex had ordered her and Cedric to wear them in case anything came up in the strategy room. “Yeah, we’re on our way. Ron says we need to get to the strategy room _now_. He won’t say what happened, but he says we need to get there _now_.”

“I’ll need to stop by the Hufflepuff common room to get Susan,” Cedric said, tapping his own link, an expression of worry warring with his relief at the end of his training session. “Cho says she needs to get out to watch the appeals as soon as possible.”

Bones, as their only remaining compliance officer, was the only one permitted to attend the game appeals. According to Cho, game appeals were traditionally held at the host school, but given the political situation, the ICW had decided that the appeals room would be at their embassy in London. Instead, Susan had been issued a Portkey that gave her access.

It took a moment for Aldon to slide his mind to the outside of his wards, checking to make sure there was no one else present to see the Hogwarts team reappear. It was cold, mid-February, so the chances of anyone being outside to watch was low, but as a matter of precaution, he always checked. His sense of time, half of his mind tied into his wards and the other half on the present, was always a little off. Things always seemed a little slower than they actually were, when he was half in his wards.

Ward Construction was the exact opposite of Curse-breaking – it was about layering spells, weaving and meshing them to get the exact effect that he wanted. Simple wards, like the privacy wards he often threw up on a whim, were only a simple, powerful, general effect spell coded to a certain area, whereas more complex wards could be as many as twenty or thirty layered spells, describing _exactly_ what he wanted to happen within the coded space. The wards he was building for Alex, using some eight or nine woven spells, barred sight, sound, and magic from crossing the wards, but not within the wards, and barred entry and exit entirely. The only one who could see both inside and outside the ward from the inside was Aldon himself.

There was no one there, as he could see, so mentally he pulled apart his wards, one line of binding at a time. Once the ward was gone, he stood up, stretching out the kinks from having been sitting in one position for too long. Cedric was already heading, at a run, to the castle to find Bones.

“I heard,” Aldon said, voice brisk as he dusted snow off his robes, answering Alex’s unspoken question. It should have been obvious he had heard – he didn’t always, when he was half in his wards, but the mere fact he had taken them apart without someone tapping on him to do so should have said enough. “Let’s go.”

They were in the strategy room less than half an hour later, Ron and Cho greeting them with grim expressions.

“Technically it’s over – they called it for Patagonia, three to zero – but you can see for yourself,” Ron said, gesturing at the image orb. “AIM started in the basement.”

AIM and Patagonia had been playing on City too, a midday game, but the battleground was completely unfamiliar to Aldon. Instead of the block, square building, there was only rubble – rubble with a swarm of witches and wizards with white armbands pouring over it. Tournament officials. A few of them had started using levitation spells, shifting the rock. Aldon checked his pocket watch – the game was only to have started a half hour ago. Whatever had happened, it had happened fast.

Alex’s mouth was a hard line, his back military-straight. “What happened?”

Cedric burst into the strategy room, panting. “Susan is on her way to the embassy. What happened?”

Cho gestured wordlessly at the image orb. “AIM and Patagonia were playing on the City battleground. AIM started in the basement, Patagonia on the roof. Patagonia’s one powerful player, Carillo, cast a powerful vibration spell on the building, mimicking an earthquake.”

“The intent was probably just to shake up the AIM team, knock over some things on the middle floors to get in their way,” Ron added, his face unusually pale under his freckles. “But the building collapsed. Patagonia clearly wasn’t expecting it – they didn’t have brooms or anything. One of the players, Gutierrez, had the presence of mind to cast _Arresto Momentum_ on the other two, but he broke his legs on the way down, it looked like.”

Cho shook her head, looking slightly ill. “Vibration spells are common in the Tournament, though. You can usually expect it to happen at least once on every battleground. It’s a little more common with the schools that do a lot of element-based or natural magics, like the South Americans, but most schools have done it. The battlegrounds are reinforced to deal with it – the spell shouldn’t have done anything but shake the building up a little, knock things over.”

“Someone tampered with the building,” Aldon cottoned on quickly, eyeing the image with mild interest, running his mind quickly over how such a thing would have been done. Patagonia hadn’t expected the building to collapse, so they hadn’t cast an overly powerful spell. If the building was reinforced, then they would have overpowered the spell a little, but not to this extent. Still, even if those spells had failed, it shouldn’t have caused this amount of destruction. “Someone removed the reinforcement wards on the building. Or they inscribed an amplification spell into the battleground – probably both, really.”

“What about the AIM team?” Cedric interrupted, looking distinctly ill himself as he scanned the image frantically, as if the AIM team would appear in a corner of the image. “Are they all right?”

Ron and Cho exchanged a look, and that was when Aldon realized, and his stomach rebelled. He gritted his teeth against his overwhelming impulse to vomit, because _they were still under there_. He swallowed a few times – the first one was the hardest, but the next ones became easier. Silence reigned, as the strategists and players watched the image wordlessly. More tournament officials arrived, each using their wands to move or Vanish the smaller rocks, and finally a redhead wearing the characteristically short robes of American wizardry arrived. She pulled out a wooden flute and began playing, her feet weaving in a complex pattern. Some of the larger rocks and stone blocks rose and began following her away from the rubble.

“The Sorcerer’s Dance,” Aldon muttered. It was an ancient spell, but a powerful one – the redheaded witch was easily Mastery-level. The academic deconstructions of the Sorcerer’s Dance suggested it was effectively three spells at once – a levitation spell, a movement spell, and weightlessness spell, all woven together and amplified by the flute. Many of the oldest castles, and Hogwarts itself, had been built using the Sorcerer’s Dance. It was rarely cast nowadays, wands being more precise and accurate, but it was efficient for this problem. He coughed, noticing Ron and Cedric shooting glares at him, and his voice was weak when he continued. “I’m sure they’re fine. Kowalski would have had his new channelling method – _Fortis_ covers physical attacks. That would have protected them, long enough for them to carve a space around themselves or for the rock the settle around them.”

“You don’t know that,” Ron crossed his arms. “Not for sure, anyway.”

“Aldon may not be wrong, either,” Alex cut in, casting a stern glance at Ron. “We all go into battle without knowing what may happen. AIM would have been prepared to react.”

Aldon suspected that Alex was talking about something quite different than the Tournament, but he didn’t ask, and neither did anyone else. Instead, they sat in silence, waiting, watching the Sorcerer’s Dance, watching as layer after layer of rock was stripped away. There was so much rock, though, so much rubble to clear away, and while the Tournament officials made steady progress, they had still not uncovered the basement level when the imaging orb finally turned off an hour later. Then, they sat and waited in silence.

Once the imaging orb was off, Cho pulled out a textbook from her bag, sitting underneath the round table, and began working on her homework. It was OWL year for her, he remembered – it wasn’t as if exams ended because there was a Tournament happening. He, Alex, Angelina and Cedric exchanged glances – they _should_ study, but Aldon didn’t think he would be able to concentrate, anyway. His grades were more than fine, and he could always catch up later. Cedric, however, disappeared and returned ten minutes later with his own books. Ron had pulled out a miniature chess board, and was moving pieces around idly, and Harriett, too, was reading. In her case, though, Aldon suspected it was for pleasure.

Bones returned just before dinner.

“AIM is fine,” she said, without preamble. “Shaken, one of their players had a leg crushed, which will take some weeks to heal, but otherwise not seriously injured. Granger succeeded on the appeal, as I expected, and the officials are reversing the score, making for an AIM win of 3-0 for interference. It won’t make a difference, though – just after they won their argument, AIM announced their withdrawal from competition. They’ll have a press conference and a formal statement crafted for tomorrow morning, they said.”

There was a cool silence, and Aldon looked at Ron and Cho, who exchanged a brief glance.

“AIM already won our pool – two wins, eight points, only three points against once we include their forfeit to ICW,” Ron said, shrugging and waving his hand uselessly. “Their withdrawal is the only reason we can move on - even if we won our game against Patagonia next week five-nothing, we would still be lower ranked than them – we took too many losses in the first two games, I doubt we would even be in the running for a wild-card slot. We’re already six points against.”

“It looks bad on us,” Cho muttered, a pensive look on her face as she churned through the possibilities. “Whoever did it, they didn’t interfere with any of our players, nor the Patagonia-ICW game. Attacking the team that does better than us … are they pushing us through? And if they are, why? It’s embarrassing for the host school not to make the elimination rounds, but it’s not uncommon, either. And Britain doesn’t have a huge losing-face culture, not like China. Or could it be for completely unrelated reasons?”

Aldon coughed, covering up a sardonic laugh. Cho wasn’t noble, so she wouldn’t necessarily know. “Of course we have a losing-face culture. Or, rather, nobles do, nowadays wrapped in a thick veil of pureblood supremacy. The Ministry and SOW Party couldn’t live down the shame if a notoriously blood-impure school won.”

His tone was perhaps a little sharper, more savage and biting, than normal, but no one in the room commented. Ron and Angelina shot him mildly surprised looks, while Cho and Cedric were politely inscrutable. Alex and Harriett ignored it. Right, because he was right in the thick of the SOW Party, as were his friends, as was his family.  And, while many of his closest friends, including Harriett, knew well that he didn’t necessarily have the same views, well, those persons numbered preciously few.

He was just surprising everyone these days, wasn’t he?

“It’s not Lord Riddle,” Harriett’s voice was low, buzzing through Aldon’s core, almost bored. “This is too violent and obvious for him. Lord Riddle would interfere, but he wouldn’t be stupid about it. Both of these attacks were simply too flagrant.”

“Rigel is right,” Bones agreed, after a pause, her brown eyes calculating. The Bones were politically neutral, and most their family practiced law. The Bones had reformed the Wizarding legal system in the mid-1800s, and the name had considerable weight in that circle. However, no one ever really forgot that they weren’t noble, for all that a third of the Bones family were noble by right of their ascension to the judiciary. Still, the Law Lords did not pass down their nobility, so the Bones were decidedly common, and therefore still shut out of the most important meetings, out of the political process. “And I doubt it is anything to do with AIM, either - the first attack reeks of panic and poor planning, as if it only happened because they were surprised AIM was winning and were trying to save the score. Whatever else Riddle is, he is _not_ a poor planner. The second was clearly planned, but was too crude. Riddle wouldn’t risk anyone dying, especially not anyone from an American team. MACUSA is the strongest voice against our government at the ICW; they would not treat the death of one of their students lightly, and they have the power to do something about it. From a political standpoint, this is _horrific_ bad press, especially after the fiasco at the World Cup. Whoever did it is far more reckless.”

“If not Riddle, though, who else could it be?” Cedric spread his hands, encompassing the table. “Maybe the terrorists at the World Cup? That couldn’t be Riddle, either.”

There was a round of shrugs, and perturbed glances, but no one seemed to have anything to add. Aldon was no exception – if it were the terrorists at the World Cup, there didn’t seem to be much they, or anyone, could do. The investigation after-the-fact had proved to be utterly fruitless, and it seemed that they, and their followers, had vanished. 

XXX

The next morning was worse.

The press conference was being cast in the strategy room, but for once, Aldon preferred to watch it with the rest of the school. Bones would get a copy of the written remarks, but those were unlikely to be widely circulated or read, and no doubt whatever reporting the Daily Prophet did would be … misleading. This was the main opportunity for most of the school to hear from AIM directly about their decision to withdraw, and Aldon was curious.

No doubt they were withdrawing because of the risk to their players – they had two players take serious injuries from game interference. They also had no further need to prove themselves – based on the official scores, they were slotted to go onto the elimination rounds. They had undeniably routed Hogwarts in the first game, and the reversed score was, even in Malfoy’s eyes, fair. The second game was harder to tell, but it would be interesting to see what his schoolmates would believe over their own eyes. Denial of reality: a true British wizarding skill.

The AIM team stood in front of a tall, glass spire – taller than any building Aldon had ever seen, unlike anything he had ever seen, all dark glass and mirrors. The ICW embassy in London, Aldon guessed; it was one of the few places in Wizarding Britain he had never seen, and the only logical place for an American school to hold a press conference.

The steps up to the building were stone, flat and broad and seemingly older than the rest of the building, or at least designed to look that way. On the steps, the entire AIM team stood: fourteen players strong, a mix of boys and girls, a mix of ethnicities that was so characteristically _American_ that Aldon couldn’t help but be impressed. Even their uniforms were different – their shirts, slacks and skirts were entirely Muggle, white shirts and dark pants. Half of them were wearing light blue robes over top, the other half dark green, and all of their hemlines were far too short to be decent in British wizarding society. They barely reached the students’ knees. Aldon spotted Arcturus Black, a near-identical copy of Harriett, half-hidden in the back row by Kowalski, propping up one of his teammates. Of course, because in Britain, Arcturus had to hide his inherent maleness, and Aldon had to hide a smile at the wave of genuine amusement that passed through him at the thought.

Their spokesperson was a girl with bushy brown hair, cascading around her shoulders in wild curls. They could be tamed, Aldon was sure, with enough product, but it would probably take an entire bottle of Sleekeasy’s and three hours. Her overrobe was light blue, and when she opened her mouth, her voice carrying in clear, distinct, tones, Aldon was almost startled to realize that she was _British_.

“We, the American Institute of Magic Triwizard team, have regretfully decided that, despite our success in the Tournament thus far, we can no longer continue with this competition. As you are all aware, our team has been the target of two very serious attacks. In our first match against Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, Jessica Calderon-Boot was attacked late in the game by an unknown third party, when all the Hogwarts players had already been eliminated or were otherwise occupied. In our second match against the Patagonia School of Magecraft, the structural integrity spells of the battleground had been tampered with prior to the match and replaced with an amplification spell, resulting in the collapse of the building on top of our players.”

It was planned, and carefully so. The only British witches and wizards who travelled abroad for school were halfbloods and Muggleborns – the halfbloods who couldn’t fake their family trees, anyway. By making a British teammate their spokesperson, it was a slap in the face to the pureblood supremacists.

“We do not blame the other teams for these attacks. However, it is patently obvious that the integrity of the Tournament has been compromised, and that Wizarding Britain, as the host of these games, is either unwilling or unable to conduct a full and complete investigation. Further, the pattern and type of the attacks, combined with the standings, suggests that the attacker is interested in pushing the Hogwarts team further in the competition. Given AIM’s current standing as the uncontested and, indeed, incontestable, leader of Pool A, we fear that playing in the third match would only lead the perpetrator to more violent efforts.

“We are deeply saddened that our participation in this event has been cut short by these circumstances. We were greatly looking forward to meeting more of our fellow students around the world in the elimination rounds, but we cannot do so at the risk of our lives. In light of the British Ministry of Magic’s intransigence, however, we also use this opportunity to warn our fellow students of the dangers of continuing. There is someone interfering in these games, likely to ensure that Hogwarts continues, and they are not afraid to use lethal force. Finally, we call on you, our allies, to join us in withdrawing and boycotting this dangerous, unfair, and unsportsmanlike Tournament. Thank you. No questions, please, we will be circulating this statement which may be published in full.”

Aldon looked around the Great Hall – it was a Monday, before classes, so it was full. Most of his teammates had decided to watch the announcement from the safety of the strategy room; he could only see Alex, Harriett, Ed, and the other two Healers. Harriett wore a look of mildest worry, a light line of concern drawn between her brows; Aldon wondered if she was worried about the Tournament, or about her ruse. The mere fact that Arcturus Black had been seen publicly as Harriett Potter, too, was a danger, especially because Arcturus was evidently _not_ pretending to be a girl at AIM.

Ed’s expression was impassive, though Aldon suspected he simply didn’t care very much. Ed was only in the Tournament because he worried for Aldon, and even then only in a limited capacity. Alex’s expression, on the contrary, was stern, considering.

The Evening Prophet, later that day, had a very different account.

 

_FIRE TOO HOT FOR THE AMERICAN INSTITUTE OF MAGIC_

_In a press conference and statement released this morning, the American Institute of Magic, a school largely populated by Muggleborns and halfbloods, withdrew from the Triwizard Tournament, citing concerns about their safety. While the Institute took the world by surprise by defeating Hogwarts in the first round, using a new technology and with a Natural Legilimens on their team, they earned their second victory not through gameplay, but through argument. Without the American Institute of Magic playing, the Hogwarts team stands to advance to the eliminations round of the Triwizard Tournament._

Aldon wondered, vaguely, if the reporter realized that his groundwork in making the AIM team out to be poor players was somewhat belied by the fact that they _had_ won fairly against Hogwarts. Even the last line of the article baldly stated that Hogwarts only had a chance at progressing because AIM had withdrawn. At first, he had simply scoffed – after hearing the AIM statement for themselves, how many students would fall for it?

Too many, he realised with disgust later that night in the Slytherin common room. He could only stand about fifteen minutes of laughter about the article before he holed up in his dorm, reviewing his Transfigurations. Transfigurations and Potions were by far his worst subjects – he did well in the theory for both, consistent Os, but generally only managed As on the practical. Transfiguration was, like Potions, one of those subjects that simply didn’t lend itself well to his style of magic, reliant as it was on raw power, knowledge, and runes. Forcing his magic to work through the formed spells of proper Transfiguration was difficult, taxing, unintuitive. It was a headache.

A headache that only got worse, when he walked into the Great Hall the next day and saw the larger imaging orb at work for another press conference. Two schools, this time, reading a joint statement. Aldon stopped by the Ravenclaw table, taking a quick seat beside Alex. He vaguely recognized a few of them.

“Collège d’Alliance and the ICW school,” Alex muttered quietly.

“We stand with our brothers and sisters at the American Institute of Magic,” one of the students said, his voice accented with the barest hint of French. He was tall, and while his cream-coloured overrobe, draped over a red sweater and a pair of black slacks, wasn’t quite as short as the American fashion, they were still considerably shorter than European robes. Collège, then. The Canadians had the only officially bilingual wizarding school in the world, with historically close relationships with both the American schools and the ICW. Though, since they also specialised in magical law and governance, their relationship with the ICW school was decidedly more of a friendly rivalry, since their students often competed for the same set of jobs. His opposite, a dark-haired girl with a high ponytail and in the longer, gold-trimmed deep violet of the ICW, provided the same line in French.

“We find it both odd and disturbing that the British Ministry of Magic has not begun an investigation into these attacks, and we are concerned that this may lead to the same kind of terrorist attacks as the one which occurred at the World Cup, this past summer.” The Collège boy paused, waiting for his opposite to finish repeating the same in French, before he continued. “Between these attacks and the British Ministry’s failure to act, it is clear that Britain is not safe, especially for Muggleborns and halfbloods. In light of this security situation, both of our teams will be withdrawing from competition.”

“Neither team is strong,” Alex said, clipping his words since he was in public. “Even with the AIM forfeit, ICW was last. The Collège was last in Pool C.”

The next day, the Cascadian Institute for Magic and Escuela Maya, both from North America, withdrew, citing the same security considerations, releasing separate statements. According to Ron, those teams were placed third and fourth in their pools, and their statements were largely ignored, even though the spokesperson for the Cascadian Institute, a whip-thin boy with sandy brown hair, spoke with lilting Irish accent. The following day, Die Schwarzenstein Schule für Hexerei und Zauberei, the German school, withdrew with scalding commentary.

The German school’s uniforms were entirely Muggle in appearance – black pants and skirts, a heavy, dark grey, double-breasted blazer. Their players were grim, unusually solemn for the occasion, and they each wore a red armband. Their spokesperson was a broad-shouldered, blonde boy with a stern, straight nose and a square jaw, the kind of bone structure that would hold up well over time. Aldon immediately wished he could meet him in person. And a few other things.

“In Germany, we remember,” he said, and even his voice was attractive: a low, baritone rumble. “We remember fleeing – we remember being hunted, for being nothing more than what we are. We remember living in hiding, in fear for our lives. And we remember mourning, for those of us unlucky enough to be captured and murdered. The Grindelwald Wars were not even a century ago.”

He looked up, throwing a cold glare at the crowd of reporters that Aldon knew had to be there. “The Grindelwald Wars were not even a century ago, and yet we watch in shock and in horror as history repeats itself in Britain, as the British Ministry of Magic passes laws defining, limiting, _punishing_ a group of our fellow witches and wizards for nothing more than their blood-status. And when we hear of the attacks on our fellow students from the American Institute of Magic, a fellow anti-blood-discrimination school, our obligation is clear.”

“Die Schwarzenstein Schule für Hexerei und Zauberei is immediately withdrawing from the Triwizard Tournament. We will not stand by when our allies are attacked. We will not let any other community suffer as ours did in the Grindelwald Wars, or like our neighbours did in the Holocaust. Should any blood refugees wish to leave Britain, know that Germany, for one, will accept you with open arms. Thank you.”

Aldon blinked, looking around the Great Hall. It was a serious statement, and he recalled only the basics of the Grindelwald Wars from History of Magic. Grindelwald had been an extremist; he had wanted to end the International Statute of Secrecy, leading to what would later become known as the Grindelwald Wars, but Aldon remembered nothing about him being a pureblood supremacist. Then again, he also knew that History of Magic had been censored – Jones had said as much, in the very first strategy meeting. He also knew nothing about the mysterious _Holocaust_ that the Schwarzenstein spokesperson had referenced. However, from the tone of conviction and determination the words had been uttered, it meant something. It was something important, something that witches and wizards across the world would recognize, and yet, Aldon had never heard the word.

Most of the students in the room were whispering curiously, though a quite a few were laughing in disembodied, uncertain, disbelief. Even Harriett’s face held only a hint of polite interest – no help there. Alex’s, though, didn’t show any surprise, only acceptance.

It had to be something not taught at Hogwarts – but something that would be considered common knowledge, for the Germans to reference it in a public speech. It had to be something, then, contrary to the SOW Party lines: something relating to blood purity, pureblood supremacy, or Muggles. And Alex knew, probably because he was a dhampir, and most dhampir were Muggles.

He followed Alex back to the castle after their daily combat practice. Alex was still demanding a couple hours of practice every day after classes, because unlike the other schools, the Goblet of Fire magically bound _them_ into the competition. Privately, Aldon wondered how true that was – he couldn’t think of how any such binding contract would work, because it would bind all twelve names initially pulled, and clearly couldn’t touch the support team members. If there was a binding magical contract at all, clearly the selection committee could release them, if necessary. It didn’t really make sense.

But then, the team selection committee included Lord Riddle and three Ministry officials, so perhaps that was the answer.

“You’re hovering, Aldon,” Alex said finally, at the door to Ravenclaw Tower. “What is it?”

“Not sure how sensitive it is,” Aldon replied, keeping his voice low and with an eye to his surroundings. No one was around. “The speech from the Germans this morning.”

Alex shot him a look of mixed understanding and pity. “Study room.”

It was still February, so they didn’t need to fight over space – the third room they checked, a small one with a wooden table and four chairs, was empty. Aldon was silently grateful that it was a smaller room –the complex wards he was building for Alex’s practices were exhausting, and even if his core did seem to be bulking up a bit in response, he wasn’t sure he would be able to pull off a second ward like that today. A smaller space would help, and the ward he constructed this time was simple, only a few runes, built with his intent alone.

Alex didn’t beat around the bush, at least. “What do you want to know?”

Aldon took a moment to phrase his questions carefully. “He spoke about the Grindelwald Wars as though Grindelwald was attacking wizards, which I don’t recall from History of Magic. From what I remember, Grindelwald wanted to destroy the International Statute of Secrecy and rule over Muggles, but nothing about pureblood supremacy. And the spokesperson mentioned the Holocaust – I don’t recognize the term.”

Alex thought for a moment, blue eyes considering. “For Grindelwald, the answer is simple enough – it is a small step between wanting to dominate Muggles to wanting supremacy over Muggleborns and halfbloods, who are part-Muggle. In reality, most of Grindelwald’s attacks remained in the wizarding world – he aimed first at subduing the witches and wizards who were most likely to come to the aid of their Muggle neighbours before attacking Muggles directly. As for the Holocaust, well … How much you know of Muggle history throughout the first half of this century?”

“Very little at all,” Aldon replied. He had the foreboding and yet increasingly familiar sensation that something very important that had been hidden from him.

Alex sighed – not a disappointed one, more of a resigned one. “I am not the best person to provide an overview of the complex interaction of the Muggle and wizarding wars in Europe between 1914 and 1946. Suffice it to say that the Holocaust was a Muggle event similar to the Grindelwald Wars, but much more brutal in its execution; the Muggle German government attempted to exterminate several undesirable groups, notably a religious group called the Jews, from their country and from the countries they occupied at that time, which included most of Europe. They set up numerous concentration and extermination camps – some wizarding families were caught up in it as well, and died.”

Aldon stared at him for a second. “They tried to _exterminate_ a group of people? As in …”

Alex’s lips twisted wryly. “Exactly what you are thinking. Though, the key thing that Riemann, the Schwarzenstein spokesperson, was emphasizing in his speech was the decade before the systematic killings began. During that time, the German government passed laws stripping the Jews of their jobs, limiting their travel, and forcing them to identify themselves publicly. It is not wholly unlike our blood purity laws, though our society is considerably more stable than theirs.”

“I … see,” Aldon replied, frowning.

“You don’t, either,“ Alex laughed, flashing his tiny white fangs in genuine amusement. Aldon scowled at him, but he shook his head. “I’m not blaming you, Aldon. You grew up here – how could you know differently? The Muggle World Wars, even the Grindelwald Wars, barely touched Wizarding Britain. You question, and you learn, and that is more than most of your countrymen do.”

Aldon shrugged uncomfortably. “I have my reasons to question.”

“I’m sure you do,” Alex replied, and from the searching look he threw at Aldon, Aldon knew he suspected. Aldon didn’t mind; logically speaking, if most dhampir were Muggles, it was unlikely Alex was a pureblood, either. They didn’t need to talk about it. “I’ll lend you a book about the impact of the wars on European wizarding society – it’s disguised as a Transfigurations textbook, but you should be able to break the guard-spell. In short, though, between the Grindelwald Wars and the two Muggle World Wars, the European wizarding community was decimated. It led to widespread political and societal changes. Wizarding Europe has no nobility; their governments are entirely elected. European witches and wizards largely dress as Muggles, now, and only wear robes for ceremonial occasions.”

Aldon nodded, thinking it over carefully. He knew that the political systems of continental Europe were very different, though he never had cause to learn how, or why. As for robes, well, he hadn’t been in Wizarding Europe enough to tell. “I’ll borrow that book, Alex, thank you,” he said finally, pulling out his Charms textbook. He was here already, he might as well get some work done.

According to Cho, a quiet word amongst the strategists after dinner, Die Schwarzenstein Schule für Hexerei und Zauberei was holding second place in their pool. But their loss was a close one, and they had enough points that they had a reasonable chance at a wild card slot for the elimination rounds. It was the first team withdrawal, since AIM’s, that could make a difference in the competition. She had looked mildly concerned, but hadn’t said anything further.

It only seemed to open the floodgates. The Friday, it was the Oceania School of Magecraft, who released a statement, choosing none other than Rolf Scamander, sixth-year player, British pureblood, and the grandson of the renowned Magizoologist Newt Scamander, to deliver it. Ed had watched with some interest, likely simply because Rolf was a Scamander. In their statement, they reinforced their connection to AIM; Scamander was cousin to John Kowalski, on the AIM team. Oceania held second place in their pool, with good scores and a distinctly non-zero chance of making it into the elimination rounds.

But it was Ilvermorny’s withdrawal, Saturday morning, that was truly significant. Ilvermorny School of Witchcraft and Wizardry was leading in Pool B, and with their withdrawal and Schwarzenstein’s, it would be El Colegio Castellano de Magia that advanced instead. The Ilvermorny statement was, like every other school that routinely accepted British Muggleborns and halfbloods, delivered by a British teammate – this time a tow-headed boy with a Scottish burr.

It was a political statement, a slap in the face, and Aldon wished his schoolmates were sufficiently knowledgeable about the world to be able to understand the point that was being made. Wizarding Britain, if not Hogwarts itself, stood accused of cheating the Tournament, of attacking one of the schools which might show pureblood supremacy for the garbage that it was, and of refusing to investigate the attacks. In response, the other schools were drawing together, demonstrating solidarity, demonstrating the outlier that Wizarding Britain had become. It was eight schools gone, boycotting the Tournament – eight schools that stood, united, against Hogwarts and against pureblood supremacy in general.

The hate mail started late that week. It took time for Owl Post to come from abroad, so there wasn’t as much of it as there could have been, but Howlers had begun arriving. The first one exploded in Cho’s face, and was clearly from a cousin or other family member, screaming at her in Mandarin until she fled in tears. Angelina had gotten two from Africa, likely distant family members or friends; the first one she gritted her teeth through while a woman’s voice shrieked about how she knew her mother had not raised her to be that way. The second one, she grabbed and made it outside before it went off. Aldon was somewhat surprised that Harriett received none, despite her connection to a certain _Harry Potter_ on the AIM team, but then, _Harry Potter_ was a Healer, a minor position, AIM had explicitly _not_ blamed the Hogwarts team, and perhaps _Harry Potter’s_ connection to _Rigel Black_ was not widely known. Who knew?

Since the players themselves weren’t specifically known outside Wizarding Britain, though, it was Alex, the alternate and de facto team captain, who was the main target. He had received about eight Howlers and eleven curses over the past week but seemed remarkably unfazed. At first, he took the time to break the spells, but after a day of it, he had simply taken to Incendio-ing everything when he received it. On Sunday morning, the day of Hogwarts’ final pool division match, he caused a minor explosion at the Ravenclaw table when his Incendio charm reacted badly with the Blasting Curse already on the envelope.

Despite the weight of eight statements, including at least two from teams with something to lose by withdrawing, and the hate mail, most of the student body somehow still seemed content to accept the _Daily Prophet_ ’s views. After each withdrawal, the tones of the articles had become in increasingly hysterical, increasingly insistent: the Hogwarts competition was simply the most brutal that had ever been seen, the schools were withdrawing because they were cowards, because they had forgotten how _real magic_ was supposed to be cast, because they knew they could not win against the powerhouse that was Hogwarts and Wizarding Britain. It was an explanation that made no sense, and Aldon was frankly _infuriated_ by his schoolmates’ wilful blindness.

But perhaps the most infuriating thing was not the students around them, but the fact that, for all that they were accused of cheating, for all that the interference seemed to be designed to push them through, _they had no part in it_. The rules of the game had apparently been changed, by someone else, but no one had given _them_ a guide to the new rules. So, Alex ordered Susan to pull the formal incident reports from the ICW for their review, then requested Aldon and Ed make quiet inquiries among their contacts within the SOW Party while he forced Harriett, Cedric and Angelina to train, pushing them harder each day. Ron and Cho spent hours upon hours in the strategy room, obsessing over every game, analyzing every remaining team, examining every battleground for weaknesses that could be exploited by a third party. The twins were given free rein to make any other inquiries they could think of, and otherwise secluded themselves in their dorm room, inventing ever more powerful flashbangs.

“So, Patagonia,” Ron said, the following Sunday, the day of their last pools match. His voice decidedly testy, and Aldon could see shadows under his eyes. Cho had pulled one of her connections in China (presumably not the cousin who had sent her the Howler), to give her the spells to unlock and replay games from the other pools on their memory orb, and they had pulled multiple late hours going through the games that were already played. “You’re on Rock. It’s the smallest battleground, with no cover. The terrain is uneven, so watch your footing.”

“In terms of how they play, Patagonia has one powerful player who carries them,” Cho added. She looked equally tired, but her voice was even, showing none of the strain. “The other two are just support, if anything – we haven’t seen them do much.”

“Strategy-wise, use the protection potion on the keystone right off,” Ron continued, looking at the players in turn, but focusing on Harriett. “Then, we recommend an all-out fight. Rigel, you’ll need to take the lead on it – they’ll be coming out fighting, and you’re the only one with the core strength to take him on.”

Harriett shot him a disbelieving look, but caught Aldon’s narrowed eyes on her, and looked away, wiping the look off her face. Well, he would see – she was simply too self-interested not to defend herself. Even if she _did_ want to hide her magical strength, she had always consistently revealed it if she needed to, so he expected that he could hope for more of the same.

“Cedric, Angelina, use Rigel’s distraction to go after the two supporting players. Once they’re out, you can flank the strong one and take him out too,” Cho said, a stern look in her dark brown eyes. “We don’t think anything is likely to happen, now that AIM is out of the competition and we have a clear shot to the eliminations round, but then…”

“We don’t really know,” Ron finished, looking faintly disgusted. “So forget anything fancy, end it fast, and get out of there.”

Aldon was almost surprised that the plan went off without a hitch. It helped that they were barely on the battleground before Carillo, the key player from Patagonia, a slight boy with dark hair and eyes, was levitating rocks the size of carriages to throw at them. Cedric took care of the protective potion while Angelina backed Harriett in defending and returning fire. The two of them did have similar strengths, in the sense that both were highly mobile and had good aim. Of the two of them, Harriett cast a wider range of spells, and resorted more to area-effect spells, whereas Angelina was more precise and picked off targets with impeccable aim. Both preferred dodging to blocking, though Harriett took care of the blocking spells when they were necessary. She didn’t need to flaunt her magical strength to carry the battle, it turned out – even if her opposite number was powerful, he was not a dueller, and she was.

There was little for the strategists to do, other than keep an eye on the battle, give warnings, and pass messages and information on the others. Once Cedric entered the battle, having Disillusioned himself while the other two distracted the Patagonia team and circling around to flank them, the end was clear. The battle was short, being in open daylight, and Hogwarts carried the game three to nothing.

“That’s a pool finish of six points, with five against – we’re technically still second in our pool,” Ron summarized, when the team returned. “If AIM hadn’t withdrawn—”

“If AIM hadn’t withdrawn, they’d probably be dead,” Aldon commented, sardonic, ignoring Ron’s repressive glare.

“AIM’s finishing score for the pools was eight points, none against, since both they and the ICW withdrew. If AIM hadn’t _withdrawn_ , they would be moving on, but since they did…”

“Out of the frying pan, and into the fire,” Harriett muttered under her breath, and Aldon smirked without any amusement whatsoever. 

XXX

They had a long break between the pool division and the eliminations rounds – nearly a month of time, and yet they were no less busy for it. Neither Aldon’s nor Ed’s SOW Party connections had revealed anything about the Tournament – rather, Aldon’s connections didn’t even seem to realize that there was anything going wrong at all, and the formal incident reports told them nothing they didn’t already know. Even the twins were unable to uncover anything new. Instead, Alex redoubled their efforts in training, and out of boredom Aldon was refining his wards day by day. He did figure how to disconnect his mind from his wards, instead winding in an alarm spell to warn him in case they were approached or attacked, but he still preferred to stay within the bounds of the wards in case anything went wrong. At least he could use the time for NEWT prep while the others trained, but with the amount of practical exercise his Ward Construction skills were getting, he thought he was more than prepared for at least one of them.

Still, he had to go through the motions, so he did his homework, sometimes with Ed or Alex but mostly alone, and it was in the smallest Slytherin study room that Harriett found him.

He looked up, perching his chin on his left hand as she walked in, adopting a look of pleasant curiosity even when he felt no such thing. They hadn’t talked since they argued, so many weeks before, after the AIM match when it had all come out, and he was immediately conscious of the scar he kept hidden all winter on his left wrist. He hadn’t wanted to talk to her, not really, not until he worked out how he felt – he liked her, very much, and at the same time, he didn’t want to talk to her. He didn’t want to deal with her. And he didn’t want to _make a deal_ with her, either, which is what she was no doubt here for.

It was the work of seconds, now, to weave a lazy privacy ward, which he did and pulled tight, locking all sound within their study room. If he had the time, he could probably weave an innocuous conversation in it, too, to allay suspicion, but this was Slytherin, and this was Rigel Black. No one would believe it even if he did weave it in, so why put in the extra time and power? 

To his bemusement, Harriett pointed her wand at her throat and removed her voice alteration spell of her own volition, before sitting down in the seat across from him.

“We need to talk, Aldon,” she began carefully, her voice strangely feminine after so many months of hearing her altered one. Aldon could tell that she had spent the last several weeks thinking through this conversation, and he didn’t miss her purposeful use of his given name.

“Harriett. Did you find anything?” he asked, keeping his voice bare of anything except polite curiosity. “In your search for something to blackmail me with, I mean. Or my deepest desires?”

She was a Slytherin. Of course, she would have spent the last several weeks searching, but based on her use of his given name, he doubted she had found anything. She scowled at him, then looked away. “Nothing solid,” she muttered. “Nothing more than conjecture.”

Aldon half-smiled, because that was true. It wasn’t as if Harriett had made any effort to know him over the past few years, so she probably hadn’t known where to begin. He trusted that Ed would be of no help, and he doubted she would have approached Alex, either. And they were his two closest friends, and he trusted they wouldn’t have talked of anything they knew – or suspected.

His gift led to most of it, of course, and he had no doubt she had found that part of it. She was smart and dedicated enough. She probably just didn’t consider it solid enough to charge him with, especially since she didn’t have certain key pieces of information that he had obtained later through his gift, circumstance, and a certain amount of sheer, dumb, luck. As for what he wanted, well, how could she know when he wasn’t sure he knew himself?

“So?” He prodded. “You haven’t found anything to blackmail me with, or anything to offer me, so why are you here, Harriett?”

“It’s Harry,” she replied sharply, then blew out a long breath, pulling herself back under control, letting the fire of Harriett Potter dim into the cool blankness of Rigel Black. “Like I said, at the first Gala when we … met. Formally. It’s Harry.”

“I thought that was how your cousin referred to himself,” Aldon replied lightly, even if he was mulling it over mentally with interest. “The same way you call yourself _Rigel_ instead of _Arcturus_.”

There was a pause, as she considered what to say. He had derailed her, he supposed. “He hates the name Arcturus, actually. He goes by Archie.”

“I … see,” Aldon replied, blinking. Archie sounded like an absolutely _ridiculous_ nickname for a wizard. Then again, his real name, _Arcturus_ , was equally ridiculous, so he could see why _Archie_ had adopted it. The entire Black family was insane, particularly in their naming conventions. Harry, too, was a ridiculous nickname for a girl. There was nothing wrong with the name Harriett, which was much prettier. Harry was disturbingly masculine. “Harry, then. Tell me, Harry. Have you managed to contact your cousin to talk about his friend, Kowalski, the Natural Legilimens?”

Harriett scowled again, though this time it clearly wasn’t meant for him. “I did. He said that everything is fine.”

She sang the last three words, pitching her voice in an unnaturally cheerful cadence, and Aldon chuckled softly, hearing the echoes of Arcturus in her imitation – a light, slightly manic assurance that probably had done absolutely nothing to reassure her. From the scowl on her face, Aldon guessed that while she wasn’t _satisfied_ with that answer, neither was there anything she could do about it. Kowalski was probably considered Arcturus’ problem.

It was obvious that Harriett was trying to soften him for whatever she wanted. She wasn’t very good at it – Pansy was much better – but then, it probably wasn’t her usual tactic. He imagined there were very few people who had uncovered her secrets, and most probably would take a deal.

He wouldn’t.

She smiled, a tiny, wry, smile, but a smile nonetheless. It was almost genuine. “I’m in a… delicate position, Aldon.”

“I am patently aware of this,” Aldon replied, voice dry, if amused.

“Then you know I haven’t much choice but to ask you this,” she replied, tilting her head slightly, her grey eyes glinting. “I would like to ask you to take a Sealing Oath for me, which will seal the knowledge of who I am into your soul. No one would be able to take the knowledge from you, and if questioned, you could truthfully answer that I cursed you, and you wouldn’t be able to answer.”

Aldon tilted his head to one side curiously. “And if I agreed, what would I get in return?”

Harriett – Harry – met his eyes grimly, a steely determined glint shining in them. He could almost see the beautiful green that he knew was there, behind whatever disguise she wore, shining through. “What do you want, Aldon?”

They sat there, a long moment, staring at each other. Aldon wished he could say he was surprised by her blatant, near limitless, offer, but he really wasn’t. She had already given up everything for her ruse, so what was one more? He should be thrilled – he would never get an open opportunity like this ever again. But, instead, all he felt was disappointment.

He was the first to break his gaze, looking back down at his Transfigurations book, which was not a Transfigurations book. The words, _up to seventeen million deaths,_ jumped out at the page at him. “I suppose, Harry, that it’s unfortunate that I don’t want anything from you.”

“It doesn’t need to be now,” Harriett rushed to add, leaning forward, sensing that he wasn’t biting. “You could ask for a Vow of Undisclosed Debt.”

Aldon looked at her for a moment. _Between the three Wars, more than a hundred thousand witches and wizards_ _across Europe died._  “I don’t want one from you, Harry.”

“Why not?” She challenged, spreading her hands broadly. “You cannot tell me that it would _never_ come in useful. I could do your homework. I could teach you Potions. I might be a halfblood, Aldon, but I _am_ powerful, and talented.”

“Because I don’t want one,” Aldon replied sharply, glaring at her. What did her being a halfblood have anything to do with her power, or talent? Why would she put it like that? Had Malfoy and Nott been filling her head to the point where even _she_ doubted herself? “I haven’t told anyone since I found out more than a year ago, nor did I use it against you – what makes you think you need this security now?”

She twitched slightly, an aborted gesture of some kind, and when she spoke, her voice was disturbingly even. “You already swore a blood oath for me. What makes this so different?”

“I _chose_ to swear a blood oath for you, Harry,” Aldon snapped. “And that makes all the difference. I don’t want to swear a Sealing Oath for you, so you’ll need to trust in my word that I won’t use it against you. You evidently trust your cousin’s word – why not mine?”

“Because you aren’t _Archie_ , Aldon,” Harriett stood up, crossing her arms, and glaring down at him. Too bad Aldon was used to people looming over him. It happened often enough when one was a wizard of his rather modest height. “Archie and I… We grew up together. Archie’s sacrificed as much into this, for this, as I have. You have no reason _not_ to use this against me, so I _have_ to take the precautions, Aldon. You have to understand, I have to.”

Her right hand was hovering towards her robes, and Aldon was quick to prepare a defensive ward mentally. A lot of defensive spells were easily amended into wards. “Don’t you dare try to Obliviate me, Harriett. The knowledge is too ingrained in me for you to excise it without putting me in St. Mungo’s, and while I don’t doubt you have the capability, do you really want to be arrested for attacking the _Rosier Heir_?”

Harriett pursed her lips, but her hand drifted away from her wand pocket, and she breathed out a long, even, sigh. “I don’t understand what other options I have, Aldon.”

“You could simply _trust_ me,” Aldon replied, still holding his defensive ward in abeyance, even as he let his voice relax. “I haven’t used it against you yet, and I assure you, I have had both the time and opportunity to do so. I swore a blood-oath for you, Harry. I deserve that much.”

Harriett scowled again, and Aldon waited. He had seen enough of her duelling to know that he didn’t stand a chance if wands were pulled, so he arranged the lines of his defensive ward carefully. He didn’t think she _would_ , not really, but on the other hand, he liked his mind and everything he kept in it.

“I don’t like it,” she sighed finally, a begrudging note in her voice. Aldon relaxed, slightly – it sounded like a concession, but he wasn’t foolish enough to entirely release his prepared ward on that basis. She turned away, heading towards the door. “It’s an open offer, Aldon. I don’t understand you.”

That rang true, at least, and Aldon twisted his lips in a grimace of a smile, turning his attention back on his Transfigurations book, which was not a Transfigurations book. The words _extermination camp_ leapt off the page at him. “Truthfully? Neither do I. I just want to see you succeed, Harry, in whatever it is that brought you to Hogwarts. If that means protecting your secret, then I will.”

She had paused, at the door, wand out and pointing at her throat. It seemed like she was thinking about a reply, but she merely muttered a spell, _mutare vocem_ , then she left.

And Aldon returned to his book. The first half was a strict history of the period, the Muggle Great War and the causes, political and otherwise, leading to both the Grindelwald Wars and the Second World War.

The wizarding community, before the Muggle Great War, had been almost entirely separate from the Muggle world. On the start of the Muggle Great War, though, many witches and wizards found their world suddenly and sharply intruded upon – the Muggle battlefront and the trenches, by chance, included space shared by two wizarding settlements, one near the Muggle settlement of Ypres, and another near Messines. The wizarding settlements had, initially, simply steadied their wards and decided to wait it out, as they had through so many Muggle wars previous, but neither settlement had expected the advance in Muggle technology to include large-scale, indiscriminate battle technology. The settlement near Ypres had been destroyed in a gas attack; the one at Messines fell victim to crude bombs thrown in an airborne dogfight.

The shock felt throughout Wizarding Europe sparked, in part, the rise of Grindelwald. Muggles should not have been able, it was thought, to wantonly destroy two wizarding settlements without consequences. They hadn’t even known the settlements were there, but the point remained. They were only Muggles, non-magical people; they were so much less powerful than the magical population. They needed to learn their place. Some groups, namely Muggleborns and halfbloods, stood against the tide, which only made them a target when Grindelwald came into power.

Meanwhile, a similar, parallel sentiment rose in Muggle Germany, where their loss in the Great War and the reparations paid destabilized the country. Their own charismatic leader came to power and put blame on certain undesirable groups in the nation. During the decade before the outbreak of the Second Muggle World War, laws were passed discriminating against those groups. Concentration camps were set up, many of which turned into extermination camps. The Muggle government targeted anyone who was a little different, who didn’t look right: religious minorities, other ethnic groups, gay men. Some wizarding families too, those who were not careful, were caught in the fray, and they were shipped to the camps alongside Muggle families. Aldon read about the genocide, about the gas chambers, about how many people had died simply because they were a little different, because they didn’t suit someone’s idea of an ideal world. Grindelwald had not gone so far – but only because he had been stopped in the infamous duel with Dumbledore in 1946.

Over the three decades, the three wars, the wizarding community had been more than decimated – nearly a quarter of the wizarding population of Europe had died. While most casualties had been in the Grindelwald Wars, a substantial number of deaths were also, shockingly, attributed to the _Muggle_ Wars. There had been nearly no survivors from the two wizarding communities destroyed in the Muggle Great War – no one had expected gas attacks, nor bombs (both of which Aldon had to read about in the footnotes). The Second Muggle World War, too, had shown a progression in Muggle battle technology, including tanks, more powerful guns, and nuclear weapons (all of which were helpfully, and horrifically, explained in the footnotes).

After the war, things changed. The political systems of continental Europe collapsed. Like Wizarding Britain, the European magical communities had been governed by the noble class, a system of inherited seats forming the governing, legislative, body. Afterwards, enough of those seats had sat empty that they had had no choice but to rework their political system, followed by years of reflecting on why the Wars had happened, why they had been hit so hard, and how they could prevent it in the future.

The truth was, the book concluded, that Wizarding society had grown too far apart from the Muggle one during the Industrial Revolution (which, Aldon realized, he also needed a primer on – the footnote just said that it was “a time of intense technological and social change”). Muggle society, Muggle technology, was rapidly changing, quickly reaching a point where Muggles could very well win a war against their wizarding neighbours, should it ever come to it. The wizarding population was less than a hundredth of the Muggle one, which the book emphasized over, and over again; in an upfront war, with Muggle technology being what it now was, the magical population would lose. To survive, in secrecy, the wizarding world needed stay current with Muggle society, to learn what Muggles were capable of, to keep informed of Muggle social and political events.

Seats on the European wizarding governments were now elected. While the outward structure hadn’t changed, by eliminating the nobility and giving every witch or wizard the ability to vote, power was spread equally between the remaining old, pureblooded families and newer halfblood and Muggleborn factions. Public education was instituted – both the ICW school and Schwarzenstein were part of a broad European system of wizarding public schools, all of which abided by certain standard requirements. It was, in fact, in their public examination system, the ICW Secondary Examinations, that Aldon had written his Magical Theory exam. The public schools all required Muggle Studies at the lower levels for children from wizarding families. Over time, and despite certain families’ staunch adherence to tradition, Muggle culture and technology was adopted by many – radio, television, even clothing. In many European Wizarding communities, day-to-day dress was decidedly Muggle and robes were reserved for formal occasions.

Aldon couldn’t help but see the parallels. Wizarding Britain, too, was too far divorced from the Muggle world. He should have known about events as extensive and important as this, especially because it had had such a huge impact on European politics. He wondered vaguely if it was covered at all in the International Studies course option, but he doubted it. They censored out vague references in Magical Theory suggesting that pureblood supremacy was without basis, why _wouldn’t_ they censor out two Muggle wars in which fifty-year-old Muggle technology had killed nearly forty thousand witches and wizards?

More realistically, though, Bulstrode was in the International Studies option, and if she knew anything about it, she would have likely picked up on the importance of the _assistive aiming device_ in their match against AIM.

Rather, after having read the progression of events, Aldon was distinctly troubled. He saw too many parallels between Wizarding Britain and pre-Second Muggle World War Germany, especially with the laws passed for education, for employment, for the lesser-blooded. Was _genocide_ where Wizarding Britain was headed? Economically, Britain was more stable, and there were many factors that weren’t in play, that was true, but the similarities were … disturbing.

He didn’t like it, and he snapped the book shut, crossing his arms in thought. He was never so conscious of the blood flowing through him – halfblood blood – or of the oath-scar he had now decorating his left wrist. It itched, it made him want to do something, but he had no idea what he could do. He might be the Rosier Heir, but he was only one person, one _halfblood_ , in a Society that would have none of them.

XXX

After the withdrawals, eight teams had made the finals: Mahoutokoro, the National Magic School of China, Uagadou, Beauxbatons, El Colegio Castellano de Magia, Castelbruxo, Durmstrang, and Hogwarts. Of those schools, four of them were only there because the actual qualifying teams withdrew: Hogwarts, El Colegio Castellano, Uagadou and Beauxbatons. By all rights, it should have been AIM, Ilvermorny, Schwarzenstein, and Oceania advancing instead, but no one mentioned it, and the _Daily Prophet_ seemed to have forgotten that fact entirely.

In the intervening month, Ron and Cho had re-watched every game involving the winning teams, assessing their strengths and weaknesses. Angelina was now consistently managing a perfect score against Alex’s preternaturally fast wandwork, aided by her pile of movement, agility, speed and jump charms. Harriett’s knife-work was slowly becoming something that Alex described as “acceptable, and you might even survive if left wandless”. Cedric’s dodging and blocking had improved by leaps and bounds, and while he still wasn’t as agile as the other two, he made up for it with his other skills.

It had taken him weeks to rekindle his magical connection to the elements. They hadn’t trusted him, at first, because his Welsh was hesitant, childlike, choppy, and it had been so long since he had sat and breathed with them. Aldon had once tried to press him on who “they” were, only to be met by a helpless, entirely honest, shrug. But, a few months of meditation and quiet muttering to himself in Welsh later, “they”, apparently, had deemed him worthy of their assistance, so now the wind whispered to him, the trees waved for him, and the grasses rustled for him. On one memorable occasion, during dodging practice, the grasses had woven around Alex’s feet and tripped him. It was an entirely odd, almost _uncontrolled_ system of magic, but it was useful enough.

Hogwarts, as the host team, was in the first quarter-final, facing off against Beauxbatons, the famed French school – the afternoon game, this time, on Lake.

“So, Beauxbatons,” Ron said, looking around the table at them all. It had been a month, and he had finally seemed to hit a balance between the somewhat lacking-in-confidence person that Aldon saw at the Gryffindor table at mealtimes, overshadowed by his brothers, and the terse, sleep-deprived general that they met in the strategy room. He also suspected that Ron and Cho had something between them, after so many hours alone, but whatever it was, it wasn’t joy in paradise; they practically finished each others’ sentences in the strategy room, but they blatantly ignored each other outside of it. “Their strategy is interesting. They did well in the pool division, finishing second after Mahoutokoro, though they actually beat Mahoutokoro in pools. Their team is all girls, so…”

“What Ron is trying to tell you, and failing, is that they have a part-Veela on their team,” Cho finished bluntly. “She turns on the charm, anyone with a preference towards women is enthralled. It’s a _huge_ advantage, especially because they were put in a pool with two all-male teams. Mahoutokoro fought them on Rock, they all fell off their brooms and got picked off on the ground. But, Fleur Delacour aside, their other players mainly defend her. She’s the key.”

“Strategy this time around: Angelina, you need take a broom, all the flashbangs, and the two sleeping powder packs. We’ll be relying heavily on our items this time around, because you’ll need to take out Delacour before Rigel and Cedric can enter play – we can’t risk either of them in the open until she’s out. The problem is, the sole purpose of the other two is to defend her. But once she’s gone, the other two should be easy,” Ron shook his head slightly. “I don’t love it, since you won’t have backup, but we haven’t much choice. You need to draw her fire, and in the meantime Cedric and Rigel can try finding their keystone – you both will need to take the long way around, no brooms.”

Aldon glanced over at Harriett, who only shrugged slightly. It made no difference to her, he thought that meant. He cleared his throat, thinking quickly. Veela magic was a sort of passive Legilimency, he recalled, wrapped in with a combination of persuasion and compulsion spells. And they knew she was a good Occlumens, from the first match with AIM. And there was no _actual_ risk, because of course Rigel _was_ Harriett, and as far as Aldon knew, Harriett was not interested in women.

“Rigel can back Angelina,” he interrupted lightly. “If that helps. Veela charm is Legilimency-based; his Occlumency should be enough for him to handle it. How many brooms did the twins give us, this time?”

“Three, just in case” Cho said, her lips pursed. “I didn’t like having so many of our items tied into brooms, but on this terrain, it’s the fastest way onto the other side. We also have the protection potion, and otherwise it’s the flashbangs and sleeping powder.”

“But, in that case, plan revision,” Ron snapped his fingers. “Rigel, you back Angelina in the skies – if you can handle it, Angelina is the most vulnerable.”

“I’ll be safer on my own, anyway,” Cedric added, nodding decisively in agreement. “It’s forested – the elements will tell me where everyone is, so hopefully you can draw them away from the keystone for me.”

“Based on the past games on Lake, the keystones are set back from the shoreline anyway – we think that Beauxbatons will probably move out of the trees, into the open, so that when Delacour dances, we’ll be more likely to see it.” Cho looked over at the imaging orb, which was now flashing the one-minute countdown. “Positions, everyone – we’re on in less than a minute.”

At first glance, Lake was very similar to the Forest – all Aldon could see, when the image screen flashed to show the Hogwarts team, was green. The trees, though, were different than the Forest battleground on which they had played AIM. They were mainly pines, this time, pines and spruces, and there would be no climbing these trees.

The scene changed to the Beauxbatons team. As Ron had said, they were three girls, this time, all three of them in knee-length skirts with tight leggings on underneath, some compromise between femininity and practicality, then. Aldon identified the part-Veela right away; she was tall, willowy, with silver-blonde hair that shone in the mid-afternoon light and a face so sharply beautiful that it hurt. The other two girls, a darker blonde and a brunette, paled in comparison. They flanked her, eyeing their surroundings cautiously. All three had their hair pulled back in a single, tight, braid, tied from the crown of their heads, and they moved, with silent consensus, in a direction where Aldon could see the shine of light reflecting off water. Cho and Ron had called it right, then – they would be seeking open ground, where Delacour could turn on her Veela charm.

Looking down at the map, Aldon could see that Lake was probably the largest of the battlegrounds – the map was dominated by the Lake, as big as the Black Lake, an oblong, misshapen oval stretching from one corner of the map to the other. The Lake effectively divided the battleground into two, with the Hogwarts keystone in one corner, and the Beauxbatons keystone in the other. Aldon could see why the Twins had insisted on equipping them with a broom each, even if they cut into other offensive items that could be added.

“We’re farther north than the Forest battleground,” Aldon heard Cedric say from Cho’s communication link. “I’ll take care of the protection potion. Go on.”

“They’re moving towards the shoreline,” Ron said, tapping his orb.

“Got it.” 

When the scene turned again, it was only Harriett and Angelina, brooms already out, walking with purpose through the trees. It only took them a few minutes to reach the water’s edge, where they both kicked off, flying quietly, across the lake. They were cautious about it – Aldon had seen both of them fly faster on earlier occasions – but they had a keen eye on the opposite shoreline.

The scene changed again, to Cedric moving purposely, silently, through the trees. He didn’t need the _Point Me_ spell to orient himself, anymore, he apparently already knew where he ought to be going naturally, so he walked with even strides. From the focused, intent, expression on his face, Aldon knew that he was hearing a song of information that no one else could hear.

They heard the eerie song the minute it started, through two of the three communication orbs – maddeningly beautiful, strange and haunting, but somehow still wrong. It reminded him of shattering glass, or maybe the breaking of stained glass, both destructive and at the same time compelling and beautiful in its pieces on the ground. The song itself dug into his mind, and Aldon almost thought he could feel sharp claws ripping behind his eyes, but he forced the feeling away by sheer dint of will. The song itself couldn’t work through the imaging orb, he reminded himself, unless he let it. If he believed it should work, then his own magic would make it work, and he held onto himself tightly when the orb finally showed the Beauxbatons team, standing on the shoreline, and Delacour dancing a vicious, beautifully disturbing pattern on the rocks.

He held his breath, but the song and dance didn’t seem to affect either Angelina or Harriett too much, both of whom arrowed down at them with purpose. Harriett simply blinked, shaking her head, while Angelina seemed able to ignore it entirely, and battle was joined.

The two Hogwarts players had the advantage, being in the sky, but while Delacour’s two defenders weren’t strong attackers, they were certainly strong defenders, and Delacour was apparently strong enough to attack while keeping her Veela charm active. The image orb flicked, just once, to where Cedric was still setting a brisk pace through the woods, but based on Cho’s orb, he heard the song not at all.

The battle was longer than Aldon had anticipated, though, like with the Patagonian and ICW games, he didn’t find himself especially helpful. Beauxbatons, like the latter two games, was not known for creative magic. They did regularly make the eliminations grounds on the basis of their duelling skill, but their last win, according to Cho, was nearly thirty-six years ago. He was, again, relegated to watching Harriett’s back, which she hardly needed on a frontal assault.

Beauxbatons changed tactics quickly – Aldon couldn’t understand the rapid-fire French, but Delacour dropped the Veela charm after a few minutes and focused on dueling. France didn’t allow free-dueling, to Aldon’s knowledge, so it was pure magic being thrown between the two teams. They were equally matched, three on two, at least until the items came into play – Ron had to remind Angelina that she was carrying them at all.

One of the two defenders caught onto the flashbang, deflecting it into the lake harmlessly, though the concussive wave at least soaked the Beauxbatons team. The sleeping powder did work, turning one of the defenders into stone, but even then, it was a pitched twenty minutes of fighting before the Hogwarts victory was declared.

“No interference, that time,” Susan commented, tapping her quill. “It was clean, too – unlikely we’ll see an appeal from that.”

“Not strictly correct,” Cho replied, as the players Portkeyed back into the room, shaking her head. “Whoever is interfering learned from the first two matches – they learned if they were too obvious about it, it would be overturned. And they had time to work on a new strategy. They might still be interfering, just in a way we couldn’t identify.”

“And if you were the one choosing to interfere through the Tournament, Cho, what would you do?” Aldon asked curiously. She was the one who knew the war games best, at least their inner workings.

“In this case?” Cho leaned back, thinking it over. “Well, the battlegrounds aren’t assigned until they know who passes through pools, and certain battlegrounds are always advantageous for certain play styles. Beauxbatons’ strategy really relied on a clear line of sight – they crushed Mahoutokoro on Rock.”

“Lake wasn’t _bad_ for them, though,” Ron interrupted. “Really, it was their second-best battleground. If they really wanted to give us an advantage, they’d have put us on City.”

Cho frowned at him, then shook her head. “No way. Beauxbatons would have had to change their play style for either Forest or City. Putting this match on Lake made them _predictable_ for us, whereas the other two wouldn’t have. We never saw the strategy they would have used on the other two, because Cascadia withdrew before that match.”

Aldon politely refrained from reminding her that the main reason that Beauxbatons was predictable at all was because she had managed to break the locking spells on the imaging orb and gain access to all the previous games this cycle. The orbs came with the lock-spells for matches from the other pools, which argued that they were cheating by studying the other teams’ strategies at all, but on the other hand, apparently this was standard, and it wasn’t specifically prohibited in the regulations. Everyone expected it to happen with every team at some point.

Ron looked like he was about to argue, but Alex cleared his throat. “Enough. We can’t prove a negative, so let it go. Who’s likely to be our next match?”

“Either Durmstrang or El Colegio Castellano,” Cho sniffed, a tad derisive. “Which means we’ll be against Durmstrang. Castellano really didn’t do very well in pools, but with Ilvermorny _and_ Schwarzenstein out, they went on. They’ve never made the eliminations before, so I expect Durmstrang will eviscerate them. We’ll be playing Durmstrang.”

XXX

Their match against Durmstrang was a mere two weeks later. They had, as Cho had expected, eviscerated El Colegio Castellano during the quarter final, and in the case of one player, quite literally so with a knife to the belly. It hadn’t hit anything vital, which Aldon suspected was very much on purpose, but had apparently been terrifying nonetheless.

“We have the advantage, again,” Ron started, shrugging slightly, though he wore a slight frown. “We’re playing on Rock, which is easily their worst battleground.”

He didn’t say anything about potential interference, which was for the best. Alex was right; they could never know for sure, though Aldon did find it fortuitous that they would be facing Durmstrang, a top contender, on the only battleground that disadvantaged them. As per usual, they were relying heavily on their free-dueling skills – Susan had reported that they were bringing in three knives, along with an assortment of what she had guessed were shielding items and two brooms. They did best on grounds with cover, setting up ambushes, and of the battlegrounds in play, only Rock had none.

“Strategy this time will be a full-frontal assault,” Cho continued grimly. “The minute you touch down, attack. Don’t give them time to build formation or Transfigure themselves any cover; one of their players, Krum--”

“The best Seeker in the world, right now,” Ron interrupted, a quick grin flashing across his face, only to have Cho glare at him. “You know it’s true, Cho.”

She ignored him in favour of continuing her strategy instructions to the players. “Krum will take to the air. If you have anything to take flying out, use it – I’d rather we _not_ face him in the air. He’s too good.”

“I’ll ask the wind,” Cedric replied, and Aldon reflected on the fact that it really _should_ have sounded odd, but it didn’t. “Can’t tell you what it’ll do, but it should help.”

“The other two are free-duellers. Keep your distance from them, if you can – if you hold them down for long enough with spells, hopefully we’ll pull through. And don’t forget the protection potion, either. Rigel, leave that to Cedric or Angelina – I want you in the forefront,” Cho finished, her brown eyes lingering for a moment on Harriett.

Harriett nodded, a slightly non-committal acknowledgement of her orders, fitting her communication link earring onto her left ear.

“One minute, everyone.” Cho looked at them all, and blew out a sharp breath. “Let’s go.”

They were in the second the buzzer sounded, and the players hadn’t even managed to rise to their feet before Aldon heard the liquid syllables of Cedric requesting aid in Welsh through Cho’s communication orb. The skies were already cloudy, but it was getting darker, and a light rain was starting. Judging from Angelina’s face, she was none too happy about it.

“Rain doesn’t take out flying,” she snapped, coming through Ron’s communications orbs.

“But lightning does,” he heard Cedric’s reply, lightly amused, when the first flash of lightning flashed through the sky. The tall Hufflepuff took the time to pour a circle of protection potion around the Hogwarts keystone while Harriett stared off in the distance, presumably to where the Durmstrang team had appeared. “Have some faith, Angelina. Let’s go – full-frontal assault, right? Rigel, you’re in the lead.”

Harriett sighed, pushing her now wet hair from her forehead, and started moving.

Aldon watched them move for a minute or two, one hand on his communication orb. It was hard to make out their team from the dark, wet battleground, even though they were in the open. Between the rain coming down in heavy sheets, and their dark uniforms, they simply blended. That was for the best, especially because he could see the Durmstrang team clearly in the distance, marked by their red uniforms. He half-smiled, a tad vindictive. “Our visibility is low, but you’re well camouflaged. If you’re injured, yell, because we might not see it otherwise.”

The orb flashed over to where the Durmstrang team stood. Aldon recognized Krum after a few moments – he was the smallest of them, and the one scowling at the sky with a broom in hand. The other two were both clearly also unimpressed with Cedric’s change of weather. They looked around, for a moment, but didn’t make any movement. There was a voice in Russian providing instructions, but Aldon couldn’t understand it, so he ignored it. Either way, based on the way the Durmstrang players were scanning their surroundings, Aldon guessed they couldn’t immediately identify any of the Hogwarts players.

“Change of plans,” Ron interrupted, a focused, considering look on his face as he examined the new battleground. “The weather changes things – on one hand, it lets them ambush easier, but we have the advantage right now. Angelina, Cedric, Disillusionment charms, then stay low to the ground and flank them on either side. Rigel, you’re still doing a full-frontal assault, but focus on area-effect spells.”

“Understood,” she replied. She waited a minute for her teammates to disappear under the Disillusionment charms, then threw a wide Freezing charm at the ground in front of the Durmstrang team. It was subtle, silent, turning the ground around the other team treacherous as the rain heavily sleeting down froze.

The unfortunate part about having cast the first spell, Aldon realized quickly, was that it gave them a direction to look for the Hogwarts players in, and in quick succession, all three Durmstrang players had knives out in one hand and their wands in the other. One cast a Lumos charm, one of the most powerful ones that Aldon had ever seen, lighting up the battleground like a second, pale, sun.

Harriett, easily identifiable in the bright light, threw the other team a cheeky smile, lobbed a flashbang (Aldon had forgotten she had one) at them with a Banishing Charm, and took off, practically skipping and diving through the barrage of spells they cast at her, none of which Aldon recognized. She, strangely, seemed to be considerably happier once she was in battle – in the strategy room, she was usually silent, contributing little, but moving in practice, she was much more focused, dedicated, interested.

The flashbang went off, lighting up the battleground once more, and in the moment that Krum and the other two players hit the ground, Harriett was moving, flying across the rocks and taking the time to throw a _Stupefy_ at one of them, before she was gone again. It didn’t connect, because the target had rolled, and it smashed into the ground beside him harmlessly.

Harriett was moving much faster than Aldon would have thought possible, and it was a moment before he worked it out and smiled, a brief, genuine, smile, at her cleverness. She had added a light gripping spell onto her boots, so she moved with the same agility that she had normally, whereas the two Durmstrang players now chasing her, didn’t. She hadn’t pulled her knife, yet, still managing to stay a good distance from them – what she lacked in size, she made up for in speed, and while they were firing a bombardment of spells at her, she seemed more than capable of dodging them.

“Two of the players are after you, Rigel,” he said, as another arc of lightning flashed across the sky. The rolling thunder was incredible, and Harriett was likely hampered by the conditions as much as they shielded her. “The two bigger ones – Krum disappeared. My guess is that he went back at the keystone, I assume he isn’t as useful in ground fights as he is in the air.”

Harriett gave no sign that she heard, but she marked an unpredictable zig zag across the rocks, turning and firing a variety of spells when she could. She trapped one, temporarily, in the Vertigo Jinx, but his teammate reversed it with the counter-curse a bare few seconds later. It bought her time to increase her distance and send a vibration spell through the earth at them.

Ron was having a hasty conference with Cho, beside him, but since Harriett was in active combat, he ignored them, instead keeping an eye on the two Durmstrang players hunting for her. One of them did manage to tangle her feet a Trip Jinx, but it only slowed her down a second, before she fired off an array of _Impedimenta_ , _Flipendo,_ and _Bombarda_ jinxes at them.

“Cedric, Angelina,” Cho said, and a single glance over told Aldon that both she and Ron had activated their communication links, allowing her message to pass through to both of them. “Krum went off to defend the Durmstrang keystone – he’s probably their weakest dueller on the ground. Take him out, then the keystone. It looks like Rigel can handle the other two for awhile.”

“You got it,” he heard Angelina’s reply, but he focused on Harriett, instead. She was still dancing around the other two players with sheer mobility – fortunately, Aldon realized, both had strong attack-heavy styles, and Harriett was an excellent defensive dueller. Every time they paused to cast something, they left an opening, and she took as many of them as she could. Her variety of spells didn’t hurt, either, especially when she was casting wordlessly as most of the upper-year combatants did. She caught one in a hasty _Incendio_ , lighting his robes on fire, but he, remarkably, only threw himself in a roll on the ground to put it out, landing closer to her than she had expected. Aldon took a quick breath to warn her, but instead she hit the him with a _Depulso_ spell, throwing him some distance from her.

On any other person, Aldon quite thought that setting him on fire and then throwing him would be sufficiently savage enough to put them out of the game, but apparently the Durmstrang player she was playing with, Danilov, was hardier than most, because he got up after barely a moment’s hesitation. She had been too distracted by her second attacker that she hadn’t been able to finish him with a _Stupefy_ spell.

“I’ve got Krum in target range,” Aldon heard Cedric’s voice from Cho’s communication link. “Ready to engage whenever Angelina’s in place.”

Harriett had, by now, trapped the other Durmstrang player in the _Immobulus_ spell, and she was leading the burned Durmstrang player, who now seemed even more intent, if possible, on getting her into his knife range, away. In the distance, he could see a Durmstrang Healer pop beside the immobilized player. No signal, though – _Immobulus_ was not considered a spell that prevented a player from continuing, though Aldon wondered if perhaps it should be. 

“One of the Durmstrang Healers cast the counter-curse on the player you immobilized,” he said into his orb, hearing his voice echoing strangely from the image. “He’ll be back in shortly.”

He heard an annoyed sigh from the orb. “Fine,” she said, then he thought he heard a disgruntled mutter about opponents refusing to stay down when she put them down. He smirked despite himself.

“I’m in position,” Angelina confirmed, and Aldon saw a Ron nudge Cho in the shoulder, delighted, shark-like grins lighting up both of their faces.

“Plan C is a go,” Cho confirmed into her communication link, and he heard Cedric open his duel with Krum with a quiet, voiced, _Stupefy_ spell.

“Rigel, Cedric and Angelina are in place and assaulting the keystone now,” Aldon reported quickly, knowing the orb would switch soon to the other battle. “You’ll be going off image. Call out if you’re in a pinch, I won’t see you.”

He heard a non-committal noise of agreement from her. The image did, quickly, switch to a view of Krum and Cedric in battle – while Krum was perhaps _not_ the dueller that his teammates were, neither was he poor at the skill, and Cedric was harder-pressed than he should have been, all things considered. He was unnerved by the fact that Krum had a knife in hand, though, based on several months of watching Harriett and Alex train, it seemed to Aldon as though Krum was using the knife more as a threat than as an actual weapon. His slashes were too broad, none of the narrow, focused strikes that either Harriett or Alex used.

Aldon didn’t see Angelina herself, but he did know the moment that she destroyed the keystone, because it lit up the battleground in a fiery conflagration much larger than a Confringo should have been. He knew without seeing it himself that she had been blown backwards – the outward edge of the fireball was simply farther than the distance a Confringo spell could travel without amplification. Both Cedric and Krum were blown clear. Krum had enough wherewithal to roll into the landing, which may have worked on softer ground, but was decidedly ineffective on the Rock battleground, while Cedric yelled something in Welsh. He was quickly soaked as the skies opened with more sheets of rain, pushing against him and the fireball, putting it out. He landed heavily on the rocks and did not get up.

There was a cold, silent, moment as the rain formed rivers of water between the rocks. The battleground hadn’t yet been flooded, but it was a near thing. Fighting stopped – Harriett and the two Durmstrang players merely stood there, staring at each other warily, while they waited. They knew what had gone up, but it wasn’t official until it was called. Aldon was aware, behind him, of Alex sending in all three Healers with their Portkeys.

“Winner: Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry,” a cool, feminine, voice announced, and Aldon heard the cheers from the Great Hall even in the strategy room. He curled his lip slightly in disdain.

He heard a pop behind him and turned around to see that Harriett and Jones were back. Each of them had a hand on Cedric’s shoulders; he was unconscious, but still breathing, and fortunately not burned in the least.

“He’ll be fine,” Harriett said, shaking her head wearily at the concerned look that Cho threw at her. Jones began weaving her wand in a pattern that Aldon recognized as one for broken bones. “He broke a few bones, and his entire backside is a bruise, but he’ll be fine.”

Another pop, and Ed and Stark were back, too, holding Angelina propped up awkwardly between the two of them. She looked to be worse off, between herself and Cedric, though she was still conscious. She was, however, heavily burned, a grimace of pain on her face. They set her down on one of the chairs at the table, while Stark began working on her burns, her wand moving quickly. Ed, being more familiar with broken bones, went to trade places with Jones.

“I didn’t overpower my Confringo spell _that_ much,” she gasped, waving off Ron and wincing as the movement pulled at one of her burns. “Thank the gods that Alex told me to stock up on magic in my hair – I think I blew it _all_ in my last shield, there. I’m entirely out.”

Aldon shook his head. “Not your fault, Angelina. The only way the keystone would have exploded that way was if someone inscribed a fire rune or blasting rune onto it before we went in. It reacted badly with your _Confringo_.”

There was a pause, and by the grim look Aldon shared with Alex and the others, they all understood the implication. Cho was right; the interference hadn’t stopped, whoever was behind it had simply learned. Aldon guessed that the plan had likely been, if Hogwarts were losing, to blow up the keystone when one of them was near and hope that it was counted as their spell. Inelegant, unlikely to succeed, showing a lack of forethought, perhaps, but it was something. Critically, apparently whoever had thought it up didn’t care about the collateral damage – even if it were the Hogwarts players themselves who had been caught up in the spell. 

XXX

The National Magic School of China defeated Castelbruxo the week after on City. It had been an unfortunate match-up for the Brazilian school, which Aldon recalled focused heavily on natural magic. Still, their strategists were good, and they had the roof advantage, fortifying themselves in the open and waiting most of the match for the Chinese team to climb the six flights of stairs to them. The intent was to bottleneck the other team through the stairwell at the top, but the Chinese clearly expected it, and came onto the roof ready for an attack.

“Lin Fei Long, Li Xiao Lang, Wu Ji Bai,” Cho named them off, lips tight, pointing them out during the battle. “The winner of last year’s internal NMSC league, and heavily favoured to win the Tournament overall. Only Wu is a paper-caster, he’ll stay in the back and attack from a distance as much as possible. Lin is a fan-caster, but be careful of that fan – the outward edge is sharpened, she can slash with it while casting spells. Li is a sword-caster, but he’s also an accomplished fencer – he can use that sword, too.”

“Fencing is hardly true swordplay, but I suppose few enough would be able to tell the difference,” Alex scoffed, but Aldon caught the look of mild interest in his blue eyes.

Either way, the Chinese team simply outmatched the Castelbruxo team in an open fight, so the victory was called after only ten minutes. Two of the Castelbruxo players were blasted off the roof in the final minute, courtesy of a powerful _Depulso_ spell from Lin’s fan, and they held their breaths collectively when victory was called. There was appeal for that action, but as Bones predicted, it failed - neither of the players had been seriously injured, and the ground was primed with _Arresto Momentum_ spells anyway.

The final was the last weekend in April, to take place on Forest. Like with the very first match, against AIM, Aldon was up early, tucking an assortment of books into his bag, including a thick tome on Chinese runes. Chinese runes, closely tied with their written language, were decidedly not the sort of thing that he could really hope to understand in the short time he had been studying them, but at least it made him feel useful. He might be able to identify what the paper-caster, at least, was doing; according to Cho, heirloom-casting was a closely guarded secret of the Chinese wizarding upper-class. Aldon suspected it was a blend of both runic casting and wand-casting, akin to his drawing runes with his wand, but he couldn’t confirm.

He stopped by the Great Hall on his way to the strategy room, avoiding the cheers as he entered as best he could. Life at Hogwarts had, frankly, become bizarre. It was better for him, as a strategist, than it was for the players, who were greeted everywhere by claps on the shoulder, cheering, and in Cedric’s case, requests for autographs, but he still often had to deal with his own share of fans. He blamed the Weasleys for that – months later, and it seemed that half the school _believed_ whatever garbage they had spouted when they had, in their own words, “improved his reputation”. The students were happy, excited, trading speculation eagerly. The eliminations round games were broadly shown throughout all wizarding schools, so some of his schoolmates, at least, knew how the games generally were playing out. Even with the warnings and the withdrawals, though, it seemed that few of them remembered the interference – those that did weren’t talking about it.

He was quite unsurprised to find that most people were expecting a Hogwarts win. McLaggen in Gryffindor was running a betting pool, and he had called for even odds, but most of the people involved seemed to be betting on Hogwarts. Really, whoever bet on the Chinese stood to make a tidy profit when they, more likely than not, won. In disgust, he caught one of the Slytherin prefects, Underhill, and pointed McLaggen out. At least someone could have fun taking points away from Gryffindor.

In the strategy room, the atmosphere was quite different. Cho was already in the room, pouring over some sort of Chinese textbook in an alternate attempt to learn Chinese paper-casting. She looked up, an extremely frustrated look on her face.

“None of the characters stick in my head,” she said miserably, gesturing helplessly to the book in front of her. _Elementary Written Mandarin for Beginners,_ the title read. “I speak the language, and I know _theoretically_ how to paper-cast – you just write the characters out on a piece of parchment and imbue it. I can do it with a textbook in front of me, but I can’t _remember_ the characters, I can’t _recognize_ them until it’s too late.”

She had made _Hominem Revelio_ paper charms for the Hogwarts players, weeks ago, though they had not needed to resort to them yet. After the Durmstrang match, she had had to remake them, because the charms were soaked through and useless. Aldon had considered whether calling another thunderstorm would help in this match, but Cho had shaken her head – the parchment used by the Chinese team was protected from the elements. In any case, Cedric had reminded them, he hadn’t actually called a storm so much as he had requested aid, and “they” had chosen to give them a thunderstorm. “They” may not choose that route again.

He considered what to say to her. Evidently, she thought it to be part of her responsibility to prepare the team for this specific match, because of her own knowledge and connections to that school. It was unrealistic, though, because, whatever her background, Cho was British. She had grown up here, she casted in the European style. “You’ve done everything you reasonably can,” he replied finally. “At least you’ll understand their strategist instructions.”

She smiled weakly in agreement, pushing her book aside, even as Aldon pulled out his own book on Chinese runic casting and began paging through it half-heartedly. It was another hour before Ron showed up, a stack of toast wrapped in a napkin, and he and Cho had a quiet strategy discussion at the other end of the table. Alex appeared shortly after noon, joining them, but Aldon stayed out of it. His job was figuring out unexpected magic, and even if he hadn’t been particularly successful at unravelling Chinese casting in the past several months, there remained, as always, the diminishing infinitesimal possibility of a last-minute breakthrough.

He pondered, instead, on the interference. They speculated, every now and then, only to have Alex shut them down. There was no use worrying about it, he said, because they didn’t know enough about the perpetrator’s motives to do anything other than make themselves panic, and energy spent on panic was energy that could not be put towards practice. The perpetrator was clearly interested in pushing Hogwarts forward in the competition, and after the last match against Durmstrang, it was probably for something to do with the Hogwarts team in particular. Almost begrudgingly, Aldon admitted to himself that, had Lord Riddle and general pureblood supremacy been behind it, then it made little sense to interfere with the Durmstrang game. Durmstrang was the only wizarding school _more_ aligned with pureblood supremacy than Hogwarts itself, and a Durmstrang win would have achieved the same purposes. At the same time, if not Lord Riddle, then who else? With the intent focus on Hogwarts, it must be something of domestic, not international, concern?

The players arrived an hour before the game for general debriefing and a quick warm-up. Unlike the air of excitement permeating the school, the strategy room was tense – no smiles, no laughter, only nerves.

“We’re on Forest, this game,” Ron started, looking over the players. Harriett and Angelina were stretching lightly, while Cedric checked over his items. “Not great for us, but not great for them, either. This time, we’re going to go with a stealth strategy and go after the keystone. Susan says their items aren’t anything to write home about, either.”

“Extra parchment and ink, for all of them, a coil of rope,” Susan shrugged. “Nothing magical, mostly items to help them with the environment. They’re packing some weather-oriented items, too, I think the storm in the Durmstrang match unnerved them.”

“The National Magic School of China has never relied heavily on items, anyway,” Cho shook her head. “New spells and wizarding technology are the purview of AIM and the American schools. The Chinese prefer to win in open duels, and they are better duellers than we are; it’s a matter of honour. You all watched the last match – the Chinese are good at open confrontations, and they are good at forcing open confrontations, too. _Don’t_ get caught in an even battle with any of them. Rigel, your job is distraction, same as in the Durmstrang match. Try to get the two heirloom-casters after you – Angelina and Cedric may be able to take on Wu together, if they’re too far to come to his aid, and the Chinese will have marked you as a high priority target after the Durmstrang match, anyway.”

Harriett nodded, a faint, but genuine, smile decorating her face. She had enjoyed the last game, had even mentioned it, in the mildest of tones, in the strategy room a week ago. It provided her wider scope for her abilities, she said, and besides, it had been fun. Playing the rabbit once again was not disagreeable.

“Angelina, Cedric, unlike last time, stick together – if you’re unlucky enough to run into either Li or Lin, it’s unlikely you’ll come out unless you’re together. Go straight for the keystone. I’ll leave it to you to figure out how to take Wu out, since he’ll probably be guarding.” Cho paused, taking the time to look at each of the players, before taking her customary seat to the right of Ron, her communication link in front of her. “Good luck, everyone.”

It was only a few minutes until the game, and the image orb was still flashing advertisements for various products. There were fewer of them now than there should have been – from his time at the Rosier Investment Trust, the final game should have had more than three times as many advertisements than the first pool games, since there would be a wider audience, but, if anything, there seemed to be fewer. Most of the advertisements were in Chinese, so he had no idea what any of them were for; judging from the light frown on Cho’s face, she had no idea, either.

A minute away, and the advertisements were again replaced by a timer, counting down the seconds. _Fifty-nine, fifty-eight, fifty-seven …_

He, Ron, and Cho sat bunched on one side of the round table, all three of them already in contact with the communication links, all of them active. They had the place at the table directly opposite the large image orb, with the best view. Alex stood behind them, where he would keep an eye on them, on the image screen, ready to send in support as necessary.

_Forty-six, forty-five, forty-four …_

Bones had taken her habitual spot to the left of the image screen at the table, politely out of the strategists’ line of sight, a scroll of parchment open to take notes. Her copy of the _Tournament Regulations_ sat to one side, open to the general rules page. Her quill was primed, her inkwell open and ready.

_Thirty-three, thirty-two, thirty-one…_

Behind them, Aldon was aware of Ed, the Healers and the twins, sitting at the back. The twins didn’t _formally_ need to be there, since their part was done, but he supposed they felt an obligation to be there in case one of _their_ items malfunctioned, like their first flashbangs. Ed and the Healers were quiet, waiting, though Aldon heard the chink of vials clashing as one of them went through their stock of Healing potions on hand. They were preparing for blood-loss injuries, with an accomplished fencer on the other side.

_Fourteen, thirteen, twelve…_

The players waited in the open spot near the door. Angelina was touching her hair, a focused look on her face, checking to see how much magic she had stored, while Cedric had one hand on his Portkey charm, fiddling with it nervously. Harriett was checking her knife, set in a holster in the small of her back, concealed from easy view. Her jaw was set tightly, her grey eyes stormy as she watched the numbers count down.

_Three, two, one._

_Zero_.

The three players disappeared, and Aldon looked sharply up at the image orb. He saw trees, a warm late spring day, mid-afternoon light filtering through green leaves. He saw the NMSC team appear in the woods, touching down lightly and looking around quickly, and he quickly identified both Li and Lin by their weapons. Wu, unlike the two of them, carried nothing in his hands, but Aldon guessed his pile of paper charms was hidden in his sleeve or his shirt. Cho had said they usually were. He waited a second, two, for the orb to change over to the Hogwarts team.

“Uh, Ron?” Angelina’s voice was slow, discombobulated in the silence. “I think we have a problem. Is _graveyard_ a battleground?”

“What?” Ron’s voice was sharp, and he scanned the map in front of him. “You should be on Forest – NMSC is already there.”

“We are in a graveyard,” Cedric confirmed, his voice marked with concern. “Hold on, releasing our projection orbs, hopefully they’ll switch you over.”

Aldon could feel a creeping, leaden, dread, filling his limbs. “Are you all together, at least?”

“Yes,” Harriett’s voice came back from his orb, even as the image orb finally changed over to the Hogwarts team, standing warily with wands out. They _were_ in a graveyard, Aldon saw, though he hadn’t really doubted them. It was cold, grey wherever they were – no sunlight, as in the Forest battleground. He could see a manor house in the distance, though he didn’t recognize it, and it was battered, in ruins. The graveyard, too, was unkempt, many of the stones fallen over and broken. It was not a pretty sight, and even less so considering it was not where they were supposed to be.

This was not good. This was _definitely_ not good.

“You need to get out of there,” Alex said, tone serious, leaning over Aldon’s shoulder at the communication links. “Portkeys?”

“Portkeys won’t work until the ICW reactivates them,” Cho shook her head, swallowing once or twice. “Cedric, Angelina, you have Apparition licenses, and it’s not a formal battleground – try Apparating to Hogsmeade.”

On the image orb, Angelina turned in the spot, only to twist and fall to the ground, rubbing her head and swearing. “Anti-Apparition wards.”

“ _Kill the spares._ ” The voice was sibilant, hissing, but Aldon barely understood them over Harriett’s sudden cry.

“ _DOWN!_ ”

She lunged at her teammates, dragging them to the ground with her weight as green light, the Killing Curse, shot over their heads, missing Cedric by mere inches. From the shocked expression on Cedric’s face, he was all too aware of his brush with death, even as some survivalist instinct kicked in and he rolled on the ground behind a nearby gravestone.

“He’s after me,” Harriett gasped, pushing herself off the ground in a wrenching twist that had to have hurt, and she took off into the graveyard at a run, her faithful follower-recording orb trailing after her. “Go, get out of here.”

Aldon swore, loudly enough that he was sure he had her attention. “Rigel, what the _hell_ do you think you’re doing?” he snapped, even as he could see the shapes of four, five wizards melting from the gloom of the graveyard to run after her.

“He’s after me,” she repeated, panting, leading them in a merry chase. “They’ll kill the others – he already gave the orders – but they want me. You need time to get the Portkeys working, get them out.”

“We are _not_ buying time at the cost of your life, Rigel,” Aldon slammed his hand on the table beside his orb, hard. The table shook, and Bones’ inkwell toppled over, spilling black ink across the table. No one moved to stop it. “God _damn_ it. And who is “he”?”

“Susan’s gone to the ICW,” Alex interrupted, poking his head over Aldon’s shoulder as the orb changed back to a view of Cedric and Angelina, frozen on the ground. In their black uniforms, they blended into the ground from a distance. There were more shapes descending on them, but fewer than Harriett had chasing her. “Angelina, you have a broom, _use_ it. Anti-Apparition wards are limited by physical boundaries – if you can get outside, you can Apparate. Cedric….”

There was a pregnant pause, as Alex considered what to say, as Angelina rolled on the ground behind a broken statue of an angel to crouch. The movement attracted the attention of one of the dark, cloaked figures, all of whom were wearing hoods with masks, and another green Killing curse slammed into the ground, narrowly missing her. She sat, low to the ground, digging in her belt-pouch for her broom. Cedric pulled himself into a low crouch, sheltering behind his tombstone, fortunately one of the few that were still intact.

“If I die, tell my parents I loved them,” Cedric said grimly. “Aldon, how large do Anti-Apparition Wards get, again?”

“A half-mile radius from the anchor point,” Aldon recited from class, knowing even as he said it that even if a half-mile was an easy distance to travel on a broom, it was far more than Cedric could hope to travel on foot. God _damn_ it, he was here to protect Harriett, but he couldn’t exactly sit still while Cedric was murdered, either. “Alex, sit down, take over for me for Rigel – Cho, change places with Ron, I need to walk Cedric through breaking an Anti-Apparition ward. Rigel, will the Protection Potion work against the Killing Curse?”

If it could, it would buy Cedric time to feel out whatever wards were there and break them. Theoretically, he should have already known how; Aldon shared both his Ward Construction and Curse-breaking classes with him. Then again, the subjects were taught by different professors and took entirely different approaches, and it was only with a certain amount of thought and background theory that one saw their similarities. In any case, Cedric didn’t have the knack for Ward Construction.

He heard a bitter laugh from her, and a quick glance at the screen showed that she was ducking and weaving her way through a series of _Incarcerous_ , _Stupefy_ and _Impedimenta_ spells. She was right. The wizards chasing her wanted _her_ , but they didn’t want to _kill_ her. Yet. “Does _Fortis_ work against the Killing Curse?”

“It doesn’t,” Alex confirmed, voice steel as he took over. One of his hands rested on Aldon’s, ensuring that the communication link stayed open, and Aldon was surprised by how comforting he found that. “To your left, Rigel – there’s open space. Take it.”

Ron and Cho had switched places, Cho now looking utterly discombobulated as she held her green orb to Aldon. Cedric’s cover had been blown, by now – fortunately, it seemed that his Celtic magics were still working, and “they” were still giving him information. He was running, sprinting faster than Aldon had ever seen him move, liquid Welsh pouring from his lips. He dove into the closest clump of trees, pursued at a distance by two wizards; they were willows, weeping willows with their long branches trailing on the ground. The branches wove themselves into a tight wooden shield behind him, and another Killing Curse smacked into the leafy wall uselessly.

Perhaps the ancient wizards had something to fear from Celtic magic after all, Aldon thought grimly, focusing on his next task. At least that would buy them a bit of time. The image orb changed over to a view of Angelina, now streaking in an unpredictable pattern through the skies and apparently arguing with Ron about what to do next. He was ordering her out, but she didn’t want to go without the others. He left him to it.

“Ced, do you see the wards? What kind of Anti-Apparition ward is it?”

“Uhhh,” Cedric said, and Aldon waited impatiently, tapping a foot as the Hufflepuff apparently took his bloody sweet time reading the terms of the ward. A glance the image orb showed that the wizards chasing him had congregated outside of his tree-prison, and were casting a variety of charms against it. The tree was shaking under the assault, but it held. “A complete ward, I think.”

“You think, or you know?” Aldon snapped, annoyed, but without any real heat behind it. “Actually, never mind that, it doesn’t matter. Did you find the knot? It feels like a heartbeat on the wards.”

Wards were tied by knots, the centre point where the woven lines of magic binding a space met and defined what was possible, or not possible within the confines of the ward. With practice, one could feel out the parts in a ward-knot: whether Apparition was possible, what kinds of defensive spells protected the outside of the ward, what or who could enter the ward or leave it. It was fortunate that Aldon didn’t care about whatever else this particular ward was doing – it would have taken far more talent to undo a specific part of the ward than to simply destroy the ward altogether.

“Yes, I have the knot,” Cedric replied, voice tense. He had reason to be tense, too, because even if the image orb had changed to another view of Harriett, barely managing to escape her now-five pursuers, he heard a crackling noise coming through Cho’s communication link. That could not bode well. “They set the tree on fire, Aldon.”

“Destroy it, all of it. Not a spell. Picture cutting the knot into small pieces, exploding it, disintegrating it, something similarly complete, then blast it with raw magic. The trick is to make sure none of the loops in the knot remain, so if you feel _anything_ left of the knot, do it again until the knot is gone.”

Aldon couldn’t see whether the ward came down, and he heard the crackling noise continue for a minute or two, before it stopped abruptly. Looking up at the screen, he saw that the tree Cedric was sheltering under had collapsed in flames, and he held his breath and waited. The link still looked active – it was still green, but he didn’t know enough about the stupid things to know whether it could tell him whether Cedric had escaped. Survived. Did magical signatures fade after the death of their owner?

It was a moment before he and Cho heard from Cedric, who sounded as though he was catching his breath. He coughed, once or twice. “That was close. Anti-Apparition ward is down. I’m in Hogsmeade.”

Aldon heard the slam of the door strategy room door and assumed that one of the Healers had been sent out to the gates, but he turned back to his own player. Harriett had now been trapped within the confines of an _Incarcerous_ spell, but she dropped her elbows suddenly, making a sharp movement to escape, even as Alex blew out an aggravated breath.

“You should have killed them, Rigel, pull your _knife_ ,” Alex griped uselessly, even as the roped tightened around her once again. His friend was surprisingly calm for someone whose teammate was now being dragged across the ground, kicking and fighting tooth and nail the entire way. Alex caught his glance and shook his head slightly. “Five-on-one odds, Aldon, and he’s never killed before. You couldn’t have done better.”

Aldon shook his head, pushing his thorny set of feelings away to be dealt with later. He could agree with Alex or have it out with him later, the important part was getting Harriett out. He trusted that Ron and Cho would take care of Angelina. Two of the masked wizards slammed Harriett against a tall tombstone, adjusting the _Incarcerous_ spell to keep her tied to it. One of her hands was trapped at her back – she must have been about to pull her blade before she was caught. Other than the noise of cloth on stone, of her shifting, of the wind, there was nothing.

“Angelina’s out,” Ron said suddenly, pushing himself away from the table with a deep sigh of quasi-relief, even as he looked up at the image orb in worry. “Apparated to Hogsmeade.”

Aldon heard the strategy room door open and close once more, but he ignored it in favour of studying the image orb. There were five witches or wizards standing, quietly, waiting, while their comrades, who had been after Cedric, joined them, dragging a cauldron as large as a bathtub across the cool, damp, ground. They set it up with no ceremony, lighting a fire underneath it, pouring in ingredients that Aldon couldn’t recognize from the distance. Harriett, too, was silent, waiting, shifting at the ropes in an effort to reach her knife.

_“Remember the goblin potion,_ ” he heard the sibilant hiss again. “ _They all have spells on them_ , _in this contest, you fools_.”

He couldn’t identify which of the witches and wizards had spoken, but there was an eighth, now, holding a small bundle in his arms, twitching restlessly. The one closest to Harriett pulled out a flask of potion and threw it at her, in her face, and she flinched as the potion hit her hair, her face, her chest, smoking where they landed.

If it wasn’t for the openly horrified look on her face as he did so, Aldon wouldn’t have picked up on the importance. But since she did, and since the communication orb went silent, not even the natural noise of the wind and movement, Aldon knew. 

_Oh, fucking shit. Shit, shit, goddamn fuck, and_ shit.

The potion’s effect wasn’t immediate, and it took a few moments for the glamour to wash away, for a person obviously _not Rigel Black_ to appear where she was tied to the tombstone. She stiffened, wiggling a bit in the ropes even as one of the wizards tightened them around her – she was perhaps an inch or two shorter than Rigel Black had been and she was, very obviously, female. Her shoulders were little narrower, her breasts small but still _there_ , her hips rounder. Her face was different, too, under the shock of something that he recognized instantly from the _Prophet_ as the Potter mop of wayward curls. The shape of her nose and her eyes were clearly inherited from her father, pureblood delicacy in every line, but her lips, her chin, were rounder, softer, inherited from her mother.

Her eyes were a bright, sparkling, electric green, unnaturally bright, brighter than Aldon had ever seen them before, even if they were fixed on the wizards surrounding the tombstone with something like hatred.  There was a moment of stunned silence, until one of the wizards said something, but Aldon couldn’t hear it, through his communication orb which was now dead. She spat out a reply of some kind.

No, wait. It couldn’t be dead. Not fully, anyway. Communication orbs were linked by spells on _both_ ends – her half carried the activation and speaking spell for _her_ to transmit to _him_ , but the spells that allowed _him_ to speak to _her_ were anchored on his half, which shouldn’t have been affected by the goblin potion. Unless he was much mistaken, it was probably the same potion they used in Gringotts, to wipe magic from any intruders, to remove the effects of Polyjuice. He should still be able to talk to her, he just couldn’t hear any responses from her.

Suddenly, he realized, too, that this was it. It was over – even if he managed to pull Harriett out of this, which he fully intended on doing, her ruse was over. Her face was plastered all over on imaging orbs projecting to all the wizarding schools worldwide at this moment, it would be reported in every major newspaper outlet tomorrow morning. If she survived, she would be charged with blood identity theft, convicted, likely subject to the Dementor’s Kiss. And they would come down on halfbloods – halfbloods like him – like never before.

But if she didn’t survive, if she didn’t survive _everything,_ nothing would _change_ , either.

One day at a time, he reminded himself. One day of survival was one more day for things to change, and she would survive this, if Aldon had anything to say about it, and in that moment, he made a choice.

Harriett Potter was who she was. She couldn’t, and she shouldn’t be asked to change that. She was brilliant, cunning, courageous, ambitious and a million other wonderful things. She was a halfblood, and she successfully passed herself off as a pureblood for years. As a pureblood, as _Rigel Black_ , she made a name for herself: Potions prodigy, powerful wizard, skilled dueller. And none of those things changed simply because the pureblood _Rigel Black_ was the halfblood _Harriett Potter_.  

And it was time for the world to know that.

“Steady on, Harriett,” he said, his voice calm and steady, a blunt, heavy hammer smashing through silent shock. His voice echoed eerily through the imaging orb. “You can’t reply to us, but we can still talk to you, and we’ll get you through this. Now, there are eight of them – one of them is behind you with his wand on you, so hold onto that knife until there’s a better opening.”

 


	6. Chapter 6

 

From the angle of Harriett’s follower-orb, Aldon could see that she had managed to get her hand in the small of her back, and he suspected that she had a hold on the hilt of her dagger. He couldn’t see her wand, but had she had it, she wouldn’t be in this situation, therefore she must have been disarmed at some point. Alex, beside him, was muttering an imprecation about how if she had just killed several of her chasers when she had the chance, she would be in a far better position now, but Aldon ignored him in favour of keeping his eyes on the image. He had no idea what the rest of his teammates were doing, and even if his curiosity was pricking at him, he couldn’t turn away even for a second.

The problem was, with eight people surrounding her, armed only with a knife, she needed a distraction before she had a reasonable chance of cutting herself free and Apparating. He studied the image closely – they were all armed with wands, wearing dark robes, hoods, and masks. He didn’t recognize any of them, not even by size or shape. There was a furious argument, of some kind, which he couldn’t hear – Aldon wished that the wizard standing behind Harriett would shift his wand, even a little, but whoever it was evidently knew his job well. So far as Aldon could tell, his focus on Harriett didn’t waver in the slightest.

Finally, there seemed to be some sort of consensus, and the one carrying the bundle stepped forward, dropping it into the cauldron. Orange sparks flew, and a strange, otherworldly grey steam rose, curling in spiked, thorny patterns that made Aldon feel ill. Whatever this spell or ritual was, it was Dark in affinity but, unlike his own magic, somehow _wrong_.

One wizard stepped forward, raising his wand. Aldon studied it for a few seconds, but the wand, and its holder, was not anyone that he recognized. Then again, he did not make a habit of memorizing wands, so that meant little. He watched as a white powder came out from the grave, glittering strangely as it fell into the cauldron, then gritted his teeth as one of the other wizards approached Harriett, knife in hand. Was now the time? Was this the desperate moment that she needed to strike, even if it wasn’t _ideal_? He clenched his right hand, the only one he had free with his left hand keeping the communication link open, and he felt a firm, comforting, grip on his shoulder. Ed, of course.

He took in a breath, to tell her to move, even if it was a bad time, but the wizard’s knife merely trailed to one side, to her arm. Much to Aldon’s relief, almost, the wizard merely poked at the inside of her elbow, fumbling to draw out a small glass vial, using it to trap her blood. Blood magic – Aldon could think of many uses of blood magic, but the more innocent ones, for linking or binding, for healing, for certain channeling techniques, involved blood willingly given. He knew little about the uses of blood taken by force, only enough to know that none of them were good.

The wizard threw the vial of blood into the cauldron, and the steam rising from it seemed to thicken. Perhaps, if it thickened enough, it would provide enough camouflage for Harriett to make her escape? But no, the wizard behind her still had his wand trained on her. Goddamn it, couldn’t the man see the ritual in front of him? Had he no curiosity whatsoever?

The wizard conducting the ritual shook out his hand from his dark robes, unbuttoning his sleeve carelessly. He held his hand over the cauldron, and Aldon realized what he was about to do a split-second before, flinching and digging his short nails into his palm to keep himself from shutting his eyes at the horror. He could not shut his eyes – he looked away, instead, to the wizard behind Harriett, whose wand still did not waver.

The hand flopped into the potion uselessly, a spare part, while the wizard collapsed to the ground in pain. One of the other figures went immediately to his side, pulling him away and binding his stump of a wrist, but the others made no movement. Aldon heard retching behind him, but he didn’t dare turn around to see who had lost the contents of their stomach. He was focused on breathing deeply, uneven breaths, preventing himself from doing the same. He felt Ed’s warm presence at his back.

“Gods all above, it was just a hand,” Alex said, throwing the comment behind him, but there was no heat behind it. “Aldon, if you vomit on me, I may have to hex you.”

Aldon snorted without any amusement whatsoever, but at least it helped stabilize his stomach.

There was a second, two seconds, while more grey steam billowed out of the cauldron, while Aldon waited desperately for the wizard behind Harriett to lose his focus for even a second. A figure stepped out of the steam, then – a ninth shape, this one without a mask, and Aldon heard a gulp from behind him.

The new wizard was perhaps seventeen years old, perhaps younger, dark-haired, tall, handsome. His hair was neat, parted on one side, with a loose curl hanging over half of his forehead. His jaw was square, and his facial structure was stern, forbidding, nearly the opposite of the usual pureblood delicacy. It was structure that would hold up with time, and Aldon knew that his handsomeness would fade into solemn gravitas as he aged – and that, then, he would probably look much like Lord Riddle.

His eyes were cold, empty holes, and he was utterly expressionless. He demanded something, reaching, and one of the other wizards handed him a robe, which he pulled over his head without ceremony. He accepted a wand, too, from one of the other wizards, then he turned his attention on Harriett.

Aldon took a deep, uneven, breath, cursing softly. The wizard behind Harriett had finally stepped back, sheathing his wand, but with the new wizard standing in front of her, it was still not the right time. The new wizard said something to her, and Aldon could see that she had replied, and her expression was obstinate, even slightly mocking. He could just imagine her voice, probably her own voice rather than Rigel’s, saying something dry and acerbic and witty, laughing in the face of probable death. The new wizard frowned, his lips twisted in an angry grimace, and he raised his wand.

And Aldon watched Harriett Potter be tortured for the first time. If it weren’t for Alex’s warm hand clasping his onto the communication link, he would have dropped it. He heard more retching from behind him, felt Ed’s hand grip his shoulder tighter, almost hard enough to bruise, and he used the nearly painful sensation to pull himself back together. She was screaming, obviously, screaming and thrashing against the ropes, and there was not a thing he could do about it.

It felt like the longest few minutes of Aldon’s life, and when it finally stopped, when the new wizard’s wand lifted and she sagged on the ropes, panting, he swallowed a few times, dry gulps of nothing. He studied the image again – they had what they wanted from her, her blood, they had achieved what they wanted to do. She was a loose end, now – a loose end that they might want to play with, but her window of opportunity to escape was rapidly decreasing.

She needed a distraction, of some kind. She had her knife, or she could reach it, but there was no way she would be able to dig through her belt pouch for any of the items the twins had equipped her with, even if they still worked. And all the wizards there, or witches and wizards, were there to watch a Dark (both in magic and in intent) ritual summoning this new wizard, and they treated him with some amount of deference. The beginnings of a plan shaped itself in his head, and he bit his lip, because _he didn’t like it_.

He didn’t like it, and yet, it was beginning to look like their only option, in a diminishing window of opportunity.

He looked over at Alex, quickly, and his friend met his eyes, tilting his head slightly in consideration.

“He’s clearly unstable,” Aldon offered, hesitant even as he thought it through. “Whatever was said, that was an overreaction.”

“There aren’t a lot of options left,” Alex shook his head. “If you’re thinking what I suspect you are, it may be her best hope.”

Aldon nodded, disgusted despite himself, and turned back to the image orb, where apparently the younger Lord Riddle look-a-like was now pontificating on something or other. Harriett, miracle of miracles, had managed to put a bored expression back on her face. “Harriett? Try to draw him closer to you. All of the others are watching him, showing him deference; he is somehow important to them. If you can draw him close to you and injure him—”

“Or kill him,” Alex interrupted. “You may do better for us all if you killed him. I don’t like what I’ve seen.”

“If you draw him close and _injure_ him, then you might cause enough of a ruckus to Apparate away,” Aldon finished, shooting Alex a repressive look. “If he were _killed_ , his followers would be inclined to revenge, but if he is merely _wounded_ , I suspect their attention will be on him. You only need a few seconds to Apparate – Cedric broke the Anti-Apparition wards. No one cast any new ones – as a fourth-year, they likely assumed you couldn’t Apparate at all.”

He very pointedly did not suggest Apparating to Hogsmeade, though he didn’t know where else she would go. Potter Place, maybe? No, her father was the Head of the Auror Office at the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, he would be duty-bound to arrest her, and Aldon didn’t know enough about their relationship to guess whether he would actually do so. Perhaps, then, somewhere else? Either way, she would need to flee the country, and there was little he could do about that. It would be better if she did not return to Hogwarts, all things told.

She tilted her head, a tiny margin, the only sign that she had understood.

The door to the strategy room banged open, but Aldon didn’t turn around to see who it was. He assumed that both Angelina and Cedric were back, though they had probably both gone directly to the Hospital Wing.

“The Portkeys have been reactivated,” he heard Bones say, panting slightly. She must have run through the ICW and the castle. “But they can’t send anyone in. They see it happening, too, but someone’s tampered with the Portkey logs; they still say Forest. No one knows where they were rerouted to.”

“That won’t help anyway,” Aldon replied, voice brusque. “They used the goblin magic-stripping potion – the Portkey won’t work.”

He heard someone filling her in on what had happened behind him, but the younger Lord Riddle was advancing on Harriett, incensed, brandishing his wand. Harriett said something, smirking, challenging him, and he raised his wand, unleashing another Cruciatus curse on her. It had to be the Cruciatus – the lookalike’s magic was Dark, and the Cruciatus was the primary Dark torture curse. The image of Harriett screaming was only slightly better this time around, and only because Aldon had prepared himself for the likely possibility and because the lookalike had taken three steps closer to her.

The torture went on longer, this time, and Aldon waited, his stomach a roiling ball of pain, for it to end. Alex, beside him, sounded as though he was counting under his breath – a minute, two minutes, three minutes. Four minutes passed, then five. Then six, before it stopped, before Harriett once again sagged in her ropes, quivering from the after-tremors.

“Six minutes, forty-three seconds,” Alex said quietly, in Aldon’s ear. “Madness becomes more probable the longer a torture session goes on, but she should be fine.”

Aldon nodded, not asking how his friend knew that. “One more step forward, Harriett. Just one more step forward. You might be able to start working on the ropes, now.”

She did, while saying something and spitting a wad of what looked like combined saliva and blood at the teenage Lord Riddle, but it turned out she hadn’t needed to when he took a single, crucial step forward, raised his wand and, even as Aldon flinched involuntarily at what he expected to be a third torture curse, unbound her.

“Now, Harriett,” Aldon snapped, seeing the opening, even as Alex beside him barked the same thing.

And Harriett pulled her knife, swinging it into first a forward diagonal slash, followed by a reverse horizontal slash. The opening moves of the very first pattern dance, the one that Alex called the one-on-one, and she jabbed the dagger into the younger Lord Riddle’s stomach with a cruel twist. He fell back, staggering, screaming, and Harriett grabbed a wand, _her wand_ , which was arcing its way through the air towards her, and with an ease that could only have come from intense practice, she turned on the spot and Disapparated.

Aldon sagged against Ed, barely noticing that Alex had also slung an arm around his shoulders and that his two best friends were exchanging glances over his head. His eyes were still on the imaging orb, which was still active, watching as the eight or so wizards converged on the younger Lord Riddle lookalike, then the image cut out. His hands were covered in a cold sweat, and he was trembling like a leaf. He gulped air in the silence – the air was sour, tasting of worry and panic and stress, but she was gone, and he had done the best thing he could do.

At least, she was away.

He stood up, shakily, pulling his pocket watch out of his robes. Not even an hour had passed; it was barely three in the afternoon. Good, because he didn’t want to face anyone yet – not even his friends, not really. He needed time, an hour of time or so, to regain his equilibrium, to decide what he would say, to decide what lie he would tell his friends, to her friends, to the professors and the ICW and the Aurors, all of whom he was sure would come asking.

Then he would move on. He would write his NEWTs, and he would graduate, and he would join the Rosier Investment Trust and apply for Mastery programs and … his life would go on, without her. His empty, lonely, dull and perfect life as it was laid out for him.

He turned away from the blank orb, running his hand through his hair lightly, rearranging it from the total disarray he had expected it had become over the last hour. He smiled weakly at the room full of most of his teammates, who were staring at him with mixed expressions of surprise, respect, concern. Even the twins were giving him a searching look, and Aldon hoped that they didn’t have any _other_ plans over the next few weeks. He wasn’t sure he could deal with it.

A silver shape started forming in the centre of the room – a lioness, Aldon realized, tilting his head to one side. He didn’t recognize it, but then, after that game, he expected that any number of people would want to talk to him, and the strategy room was warded to keep out anyone not on the team. An Auror summons?

The lioness opened her mouth, and there was something like a soft, embarrassed cough. “Um, I’m at the front gates, so would someone be able to come unlock them?” Harriett’s mellow, alto, voice, somewhat weaker than usual, rang throughout the room.

Aldon swore.

Evidently, his personal falling to pieces would have to happen later. Why would she return? She was smart enough to know the consequences. He had to go meet her, head her off before she did something more monumentally stupid, and he stalked towards the door.

“Twins, go after him,” he vaguely heard Alex say behind him, but he was gone, storming through the shockingly empty Entrance Hall, bursting into the bright early afternoon sunlight.

It was a long march to the front gates, and he couldn’t say he was surprised when the twins caught up to him, one on either side of him. For a moment, they were silent, letting him stew in peace.

“It was a brave thing, you did,” one of them said, eventually. The one on his right – George, Aldon would guess. They might be perfectly identical appearance-wise, but their personalities did have subtle differences. Fred, of the two, was somewhat more gregarious, while George tended to be a little more thoughtful. “Sure you’re not a Gryffindor in there?”

And then, of course, he had to go and say something like that. “There was nothing Gryffindor about that,” Aldon retorted, voice harsh, continuing his determined stride to the front gates. “And there was nothing brave about what I did, either.”

He could feel the two of them exchanging looks above his head, keeping pace easily even when Aldon quickened his pace.

The gates loomed in front of them, braced on either side by four heavy stone pillars, each topped with a House mascot. Gryffindor and Ravenclaw stood on one side, with Hufflepuff and Slytherin on the other, and between them the Hogwarts gates were heavy, iron, with the Hogwarts crest worked over in the centre. Aldon pulled his wand cautiously before he unlatched the gate and pulled it open slightly, poking his head out carefully.

Harriett stood from where she had been crouching underneath the Hufflepuff pillar, letting a Disillusionment Charm fall away. And, for the first time ever, Aldon looked at her and felt nothing in his core – no buzzing, no warning that she was a lie. This was her – this was Harriett Potter, stripped away of all her disguise spells, Harriett Potter as who she was meant to be. She was tired, wan, pale, and her hair was wilder than Rigel’s had been. She was shorter than Rigel was, narrower in her shoulders and small-breasted, with wider hips, obviously female. She looked fitter than Rigel ever had, which made sense – her pale, slender form as Rigel had always been somewhat inconsistent with the sheer amount of physical activity she engaged in. Her green eyes were even more striking – they weren’t the precise shade that she had at either Gala, and there was an unnatural brightness to them that he knew, instantly, could not be replicated by any spell or disguise.

“You shouldn’t have returned,” Aldon said, trying and failing to make his voice stern instead of breathless. “You know the world saw everything.”

“That was rather his point,” Harriett replied brusquely, eyes flashing as she pushed past him, with a strength he didn’t think she would have. She was shaking slightly, a bone-deep tremor, even if her voice remained even. “He wanted the world to see his rise. I need speak to Professor Dumbledore about what he said, since the communication link was broken – something I doubt he was expecting. He gave quite a pompous speech. Hello Fred, George.”

They didn’t leap on her, as they might have if she were still Rigel, instead eyeing her cautiously and, one at a time, wrapping her in a careful hug. “Puppy?”

She smiled, a small smile, almost sad. “The one and same,” she muttered, returning their hugs gently. “I’m sorry, but I really need to see Professor Dumbledore.”

“Hospital Wing, first,” George clucked, wrapping an arm around her, taking her in stride. “I wouldn’t be surprised if Dumbledore were already there – Angelina and Cedric are both there already.”

“Could you not report what he said to _us_ , and then _go_?” Aldon tried, even as he saw that the twins were leading her back to the castle. He blew out a heavy sigh, following them. “You’re going to be arrested.”

A glint of humour showed in her bright green eyes for a moment. “The price you pay,” she replied softly, then cleared her throat. “I also want my bag. It has… rather a lot of important things in it.”

“Is your bag worth your _life_?” Aldon demanded, but there was no heat behind it.

“My bag isn’t,” she shook her head, eyes dimmed to seriousness. “But others’ lives are.”

There was a grim finality to her words, and they trudged, the twins on either side of Harriett and Aldon behind them, across the Hogwarts grounds. As they got closer, and Aldon could see other students beginning to mill outside, he pulled out his wand and wove a quick ward around them – Disillusionment, combined with a strong notice-me-not spell, a Silencing spell to lock all sound within the ward. It wasn’t perfect – they were moving and that made it harder for him to settle and tie the wards, but no one would see them if they didn’t draw attention to themselves.

“Thank you, Aldon,” he heard Harriett’s voice. It was tired, and her thanks was, for once, entirely genuine.

“Don’t thank me for this,” he replied, entirely contrary, half-smiling at the irony. The one time she thanked him and meant it, of course he didn’t deserve it. He should have been dragging her out the front gates himself.

The hallways to the Hospital Wing were more crowded, a little more difficult to navigate, but the twins knew, without anything said, to take side routes. They went up two secret staircases, only one of which Aldon knew about, then cut across a side passageway to come out near the Hospital Wing. Harriett didn’t fight them on it – as _Rigel_ , she had no love for the place, but she apparently had no such aversion as Harriett.

They waited for the passageway to clear before they opened the doors, and Aldon released his ward. Madam Pomfrey came bustling over, a serious look adorning her normally kind face, and took charge.

“I need to see Professor Dumbledore,” Harriett announced tiredly, for the third time that hour. “And then my potions kit and lab, for a Draught of Peace. After-effects of the Cruciatus curse.”

“You need to rest,” Madam Pomfrey said, voice firm, steering her to a nearby, empty, bed. “The Headmaster is already here, speaking to Mr. Diggory, and I am sure he will wish to speak to you afterwards. I will contact Severus myself.”

Harriett nodded, and it was by her quiet acquiescence and the way she pulled her legs up on the bed that Aldon realized that, no matter the strength of her voice, she was exhausted. She still trembled, slightly – after-effects of the Cruciatus, she had said. She allowed Madam Pomfrey to conduct her usual array of diagnostic charms, this year, nodding her consent when asked directly. The Mediwitch scrawled something on the clipboard at the end of the bed, and moved to check on Cedric, a few beds down, but then she stopped, turning around.

“And, Miss Potter, if I may be so bold,” she said, her blue eyes steely in quiet determination. “Have no fear, in my Hospital Wing. I will not let anything happen to you here, and this is Dumbledore’s jurisdiction.”

Harriett smiled kindly, but the smile didn’t reach her eyes. “Thank you,” she said, and it rang as a lie, because she didn’t really believe there was much that the stern Mediwitch could do if the Aurors came calling. Or the SOW Party, for that matter. Hogwarts still existed within Wizarding Britain, and even if it was Dumbledore’s stronghold, there were limits to what he could do.

“Your friends can visit you tomorrow,” Madam Pomfrey said, sending Aldon and the twins a purposeful glare. One of the twins, Fred, Aldon guessed, raised his hands in mock surrender. Aldon reached over to the water goblet, sitting on Harriett’s bedside table, thinking quickly. Harriett wouldn’t have until tomorrow – it was still mid-afternoon. How quickly did the Ministry work? Normally he would have given it at least a week, but this was an international tournament which had been hijacked by a probable terrorist who happened to look quite a lot like a younger version of Lord Riddle, so he expected that the SOW Party would bring some pressure to bear on the situation. And, of course, there was no way this would be anything except front page news tomorrow. A formal charge would probably be drawn up within a couple hours, so the Aurors would probably be here this evening. But she was at Hogwarts, so it was almost certain that Dumbledore could arrange for her to stay at Hogwarts under arrest at least for the night.

One night, he could count on. It wasn’t great, but it was workable.

“ _Aguamenti_ ,” he muttered, and the goblet filled with water. Harriett gave him a slightly puzzled look, reaching out politely to take it, but when Aldon passed it to her, he withdrew his hand just a moment too soon. The goblet fell to the ground with a clatter, and Aldon dove after it, murmuring a half-hearted apology of some kind.

Kneeling on the ground, he quickly dipped one hand in the spilled water and drew a single rune on the floor, imbuing it with a flash of his magic. A simple listening rune, it would work for perhaps twelve hours – once the water dried, it would only linger for so long. He keyed it to himself, standing up with the goblet and filling it once again, properly, this time, and passing it to her.

She gave him a very odd look, but accepted it without comment.

“I will see you tomorrow, then,” Aldon lied, expressionless, though he hoped Harriett would know better. There was nothing else he could do under Madam Pomfrey’s watchful eye, and it was nearing four. Dinner would be at six, normally, and he would need to attend to see the lay of the land. No doubt Dumbledore would have some comments, but what those were would likely depend on how quickly the Ministry moved. Either way, Aldon didn’t have many hours to plan, if he were going to pull this off. There were things that needed to be decided, and of course he still needed to work out his lies for the Aurors, as well as a method of overcoming truth-spells or Veritaserum. If this worked, even with his social status, he would not avoid questioning.

The twins were waiting for him outside the Hospital Wing, silently talking in whatever language they had developed for noiseless communications. He appreciated it, even if he wasn’t sure why they had waited for him.

They fell into step beside him as he walked slowly towards the strategy room, thinking. Where did she keep her bag? He wished he had asked, in the Hospital Wing, but it would have sounded suspicious if he did. She usually carried it everywhere with her, though, so hopefully she had left it in the strategy room under a blazing pile of notice-me-not charms. If not, he would have to convince one of her dormmates to check the fourth-year dorms, or her potions lab. He wasn’t sure where her lab was, entirely – one of her friends would know. But he didn’t like that idea, either – the less they knew of his plans, frankly, the better. No, if it wasn’t in the strategy room, he would have to work a runic summoning circle for the damn thing. He had chalk – they used it often enough in Ancient Runes, and a runic circle couldn’t be picked up by _Priori Incantatem_.

The second problem, then: how would he get her out of the castle? Well, first, he would need to get her out of the Hospital Wing without being noticed, which he anticipated would be the most difficult part. It would need to be late – the Hospital Wing would have to be as empty as possible. And, if the Ministry was on schedule, even Dumbledore could not avoid setting up a powerful lock-ward or spell. He would need to break that – a tall order, but not, he hoped, completely out of the question. He wasn’t so bad at breaking wards. Once she was out of the Hospital Wing, he expected that he could manipulate the school wards into letting her out without too much trouble. And Hogwarts, as a magical school, relied on its magical defenses – the physical gate wouldn’t pose a problem, if the wards didn’t.

But that would take time.

They were still on the second floor, nearing one of the secret staircases that the twins had led him up earlier – the only one of the two that he recognized. He passed through the tapestry hiding the entrance to the stairs and stopped. “Fred, George,” he started slowly, turning around and discreetly drawing several runes in the air with raw magic, a crude privacy shield. “If I, entirely hypothetically, asked if you were able to create a diversion late tonight, what would you say?”

The two redheads exchanged a glance.

“Normally, we would ask what you needed it for,” said one – George, Aldon thought. His blue eyes were serious, at odds with his light tone.

“But in this case, we’ll make an exception,” Fred finished, equally quietly. “How long do you need – hypothetically?”

“Hypothetically, as much time as you can give me,” Aldon replied, letting the words drop, heavy, like stones into a puddle. He heard his listening rune in the Hospital Wing activate – Dumbledore had come around to talk to Harriett.

The twins exchanged a look. “Hypothetically, if we did, we couldn’t guarantee you more than an hour,” Fred replied, with George nodding once in agreement.

Aldon smiled slightly, in acknowledgement. No further words need be said – they would create some commotion away from the Hospital Wing late that night, and he would hope that whatever time they bought was enough. It was a risk, for them, but a diversion would be helpful. He cancelled the privacy ward with three quick slashes of his wand.

In the strategy room, he let the twins report to Alex and instead curled up in one of the comfortable armchairs in the back of the room. He wanted to hear what Harriett had to say about her afternoon, and he focused on his listening rune. The positioning of his rune was not very good – he could only hear some of their words, and not well. He focused on listening to what he could.

“He ... called himself Lord Voldemort,” he recognized Harriett’s voice. “At one point, it seems that he was a magical construct … He seems to now be a fully alive wizard in his own right. … Magic was effective. He cast several spells at me ... all worked.”

“… who created the construct?” Dumbledore asked, though his tone suggested he had his own ideas on that front. There was another question, too, but Aldon couldn’t make it out.

“Nothing conclusive,” Harriett replied slowly “He … Lord Riddle, both physically and ideologically, though ... extreme. He certainly _believes_ … Not entirely sane. He spoke at length about a complete cleansing of Wizarding Britain … was quite upset to find that he had been … resurrected with _my_ blood.” Her voice held a glint of dark humour to it, the parts of her commentary he could hear, anyway, and Aldon could hardly help but smirk. “He ... the terrorist attack at the World Cup.”

Aldon licked dry lips – whatever Dumbledore said next, he missed it, the voice was just too low. It must have been a question of magical prowess, though, because Harriett’s next response, the parts of it that he could hear, detailed her experience of his magic, something about the ritual. He kept listening, anyway, tucking the information away for a later time, but there was little else that stood out to him.

It was Bones who tapped him on the shoulder, and he looked up to see that most of the room had emptied while he was listening, thinking. Ed was still there, with his Care of Magical Creatures textbook, casting occasional, concerned glances at him, as was Alex, who was staring at the blank image orb, lost in his own thoughts. And Bones, of course.

“My cousin Bernard sent me a Patronus,” she muttered quietly, barely audible, too low for the other two to hear. “DMLE is up in arms. Auror Potter is conflicted out, of course – he couldn’t do anything else. Auror Dawlish just obtained the arrest warrant. Thought you ought to know.”

Aldon nodded grimly, standing up and scanning the room carefully for Harriett’s bag. It wasn’t there – well, if it contained anything as important as he thought it must, for her to return and specifically mention it, she wouldn’t have brought it with her, likely as not. Fine, that meant the runic summoning spell – and where was a good location for that? He needed to be alone, first, and preferably also somewhere where runic circles were cast often, since they often left a residue on the floor. The Runes classroom would likely be the best.

He tried to leave the room quietly, following Bones out, but he wasn’t surprised when Ed followed him.

“No need to come with,” Aldon tried lightly, though he didn’t really expect it to work. Ed knew him too well. “I’m just going to go and … try to process today. I’d prefer to be alone.”

Ed threw him a thoroughly skeptical look. “I think it would be better if you _weren’t_ alone tonight, Aldon,” he replied, gravelly voice quiet.

Aldon sighed internally, making his way through the hallways and ignoring the stares that passing students were giving him. At least, having Ed beside him, throwing dark promising stares back, meant that he wasn’t bothered. Ed was persistent; he would need another way to lose him for the night. And he couldn’t use wand magic, because even if he managed to pull everything off, he would need to handle Auror questioning tomorrow, and that they would absolutely use _Priori Incantatem. Priori Incantatem_ was not considered invasive, so the Aurors were permitted to use it at will. If he had some of the Marauder sleeping powder, that would work wonders, but he had never been a prankster, so he had never before had reason to have any.

Aldon had never hexed Ed before, though, so he wouldn’t be expecting it.

Aldon led the way to the seventh-year dorms, thinking carefully. He didn’t want to _hurt_ Ed; ideally, he just wanted to cast a strong sleeping spell or some such. Something that put him out of the way for a few hours. He didn’t know the sleeping runes off hand, though – the ones he knew offhand were the ones he used all the time, mainly secrecy and privacy runes, or magical sight spells.

He cursed silently, then rearranged his evening plans. He would need to wait until after dinner, or he could eat quickly and leave early, and instead he would have to use this time to find the right runes. Fortunately, Ed didn’t know runes well enough to work out what Aldon was planning – all he would see was what he expected, Aldon reading a Runes textbook, as per usual.

They entered the Slytherin common room, but Aldon made a straight line towards the seventh-year dorms, hearing Ed making his excuses behind him. Well, that was another problem, but he could look up the runes for a decent invisibility or Disillusionment spell as well. And something for forgetting or forgetfulness, just in case.

When Ed reached the seventh-year dorm, Aldon was already curled up on his bed, the seventh-year Runes textbook in front of him. He didn’t say anything – he barely acknowledged that Ed was there, which was exactly what Ed would expect if Aldon was sulking. Which, Aldon reminded himself, he was. He was sulking because Ed didn’t want to leave him alone when he specifically said he wanted to be left alone. He was just sulking while memorizing the runes he would need for the rest of the evening – something for a crude invisibility ward, something to knock Ed out after dinner for several hours, something to make people forget they had seen him if he wasn’t careful enough. He also refreshed his memory of runic summoning circles – they were OWL-level, so he had no concerns about being able to pull that part of tonight’s plan off.

When the dinner hour came, Aldon roused himself with a sour look at Ed, feigning annoyance as he shut his book. Ed’s expression was politely tolerant, which made it easier – all of this would have been much less complicated if Ed simply left him alone when he had asked. Ed waited for him to leave first, following him into the Great Hall.

The stares followed them as they went. Most of the other Triwizard Team members, those that appeared for dinner, were also subject to stares – Aldon spotted Cho at the seventh-year end of the Ravenclaw table, shielded partially by Alex. Alex had never been the friendliest of Ravenclaws, a House known for their introspection, but neither had he ever been actively unfriendly. Tonight, there was none of that – he was coldly ignoring any and all attempts at conversation. Aldon could tell that the attempts were wearing on him, though, because on occasion his lip curled up and one could _almost_ see his fangs.

All three Weasleys were sitting together, dealing with the situation by being twice as raucous as usual and forcing a conversation about Quidditch rankings or some such. Ron was vociferously and loudly defending his favoured team, the Chudley Cannons, which from Aldon’s vague recollection was currently still last in the league, while the twins were yelling over him about the Ballycastle Bats. Even if their Housemates weren’t entirely buying it, they were swept up in it anyway.

The Hufflepuffs were unusually subdued – none of the Hufflepuff team members were there, all of them clearly having chosen to avoid the situation entirely. Their common room was said to be close to the kitchens, Aldon remembered, so they wouldn’t go hungry, either. For a moment, he felt a flash of jealousy, then pushed that aside. No, even if he knew where the kitchens were, he had to be at dinner tonight – he needed to know what Dumbledore would say, if anything. Bones had said that the arrest warrant was issued, but Aldon’s listening rune told him nothing at present, which could mean nothing at all.

Aldon followed Alex’s lead, allowing Ed to make his excuses for him. Something about how Aldon was tired from his work that day and was still processing what had happened, and he heard Adrian and Lucian carry the word down the table. Pansy and Malfoy were not there, though the other fourth-years were clustered together, chatting quietly. Well, there was another problem – but one for him to resolve later, once he got Harriett out of the castle. He would need to figure out how to handle them. Later.

Dumbledore had nothing to say. Or rather, he simply stated that the events of the day were still under investigation, that nothing definitive was known, and discouraged any gossip. That was good, Aldon thought, spooning soup automatically. That meant nothing had happened yet, but that it was an everchanging situation. He didn’t want to say anything that might be incorrect in an hour or two.

He didn’t feel like eating much more than soup, that night – he was too tense with anticipation, and he had too much to do. When Ed looked at his plate, he merely shrugged slightly – let him make of Aldon’s appetite what he would. He would probably assume that Aldon was feeling too ill and off-centre to eat, which was entirely true, just not for the reasons Ed might have expected. He would no doubt feel too ill and off-centre to eat for several days after this, too.

The doors slammed open just as the desserts were appearing on the table, crashing open with a loud crack. A team of four Aurors stood in the doorway. Aldon recognized Auror Dawlish, standing in the centre, a serious expression barely concealing the glint of sheer glee in his eyes. Ah, inter-departmental conflicts within the DMLE – Harriett’s scandal could only fuel Dawlish’s rise there.

“Headmaster Dumbledore,” Dawlish said, his voice booming through the Great Hall, pulling a sheet of paper out of his robes, and overall sounding far too eager for something of this gravity. He had probably been waiting to do something like this for years, Aldon thought uncharitably. “I am here with an arrest warrant for Harriett Euphemia Potter.”

Dumbledore rose to his feet slowly, meeting the Auror’s eyes with careful consideration. “Surely your task can wait until after supper. Do join us, Dawlish. Shacklebolt, Rowle, Shafiq.”

Three names of the Sacred Twenty-Eight, though they were unlikely to be of the main families. That couldn’t be an error; Dawlish had gone digging.

“Headmaster Dumbledore,” Dawlish continued, adopting a chiding tone into his voice. “The charges are serious – blood identity theft, among others. I’m sure you would rather we handled this matter quickly.”

“And I am sure I would rather not,” Dumbledore replied. His voice was mild, but the expression in his eyes was anything but. “Miss Potter has had a difficult day and is currently under treatment for her injuries. Regardless of what she may have done, I will not allow you to remove a child under my care while she is still being treated for, among others, the after effects of the Cruciatus curse. You may meet with her after dinner, and we shall discuss what will happen next then.”

Dawlish didn’t look pleased with the result, but then, he had gotten his moment of attention. The Aurors settled themselves at the ends of the Head Table, sitting in chairs that had been hastily conjured, and Aldon swung his legs out from under Slytherin table. He had heard enough – it was time to move. Dinner was nearly done anyway, and he still had much to do.

Ed followed him, of course, and Aldon took his time walking back to the Slytherin common room, thankfully mostly empty, back into the seventh-year dorms. He settled back on his bed, pulling open his Runes books once more, to all intents and purposes back to sulking. His carelessly set his wand down beside him, close enough for him to grab it quickly, but nothing that would spark Ed’s suspicion. He didn’t _want_ to hex Ed. But he would, because it was necessary.

He waited for Ed to get his Charms textbook and sit at his desk, his back turned to Aldon, and Aldon picked up his wand and silently wove a series of runes, for sleeping, serenity, peace in raw magic, sending them at his friend with a wave of intent.  It took a second, because Ed fought it, struggling to get up and turn around, but Aldon narrowed his eyes, fueling the runes with a burst of determined desperation, and it was too late. Ed’s head hit the desk, and he was out.

“Sorry, old friend,” Aldon muttered, even if he didn’t mean it, even if it rang as a half-lie in his core. He might feel bad about having to do it, but he didn’t regret it, because it was necessary. If he judged the power correctly, Ed should be out for about six hours. Six hours would be long enough.

He took the time to weave his runic invisibility ward, runes for invisibility, illusion, silence, secrecy, mystery. It wasn’t as good as a Disillusionment Charm, and he couldn’t even really use the Disillusionment ward he had used before – he wasn’t _positive_ that a Disillusionment _ward_ would be picked up by _Priori Incantatem_ , but both the Disillusionment and notice-me-not charms were actual, formed, _spells_ rather than raw magic being funneled through runes and intent, so he erred on the side of caution. His runic version would hold up if he was careful, he thought.

He grabbed his wand, a small piece of chalk, and, after a moment of thought, his communication link orb, disappearing out of his dorm. He waited a few minutes by the common room doors for someone to enter, and slipped out as they were walking in – the common room was not _totally_ empty, and the doors opening by themselves would be suspicious. It wasn’t long, at any rate, since dinner was finishing.

The most challenging part was getting out of the dungeons, no doubt – with his Housemates returning from dinner, the corridors were crowded. He hugged the walls of the dungeons, moving carefully, and breathed a sigh of relief when he reached the classroom corridors, which were thankfully empty. The Runes classroom was unlocked, and he looked both ways before letting himself in.

His listening rune in the Hospital Wing activated; the Aurors were there. He listened for several long minutes as the Aurors formally charged Harriett with blood identity theft, conspiracy to commit blood identity theft, some twenty-seven counts of fraud, including ten aggravated counts of fraud while committing blood identity theft, conspiracy to commit fraud, five counts of detrimental reliance on blood status, free-dueling, possession of a dangerous weapon, assault with a weapon, reckless endangerment, and Apparition without a license. What ridiculousness. They wanted to take her with them right away, as he expected, but he heard Dumbledore and Madam Pomfrey intercede on her behalf. She was in the Hospital Wing, recovering from her traumatic experience and her injuries, and they would not permit her to be taken away at this time. It was a hard-fought battle with words, but instead it was determined that the Aurors could stay the evening and they would re-discuss this point in the morning. Dumbledore would weave a ward around the Hospital Wing preventing her escape. That was fine – he expected that.

The runic summoning circle was simple enough. The difficult part was the description of Harriett’s bag, but he got around it by adding an intention part to the summoning circle, as in a Summoning Charm. Runic summoning circles were rarely used – they did the exact same thing as _Accio_ , though there were differences in how they worked, the amount of power consumed and, of course, the amount of effort they required. A Summoning Charm would summon the thing in as direct of a line as possible to the summoner – a runic summoning circle would effectively Disapparate the item from wherever it was and have it reappear within the circle. Runic summoning circles required more power, more preparation, but they were better for items that were far away.

Once his chalk circle was complete, he tossed the piece of chalk onto one of the desks and set his palm on the part of the circle marked for magical input. Imbuing the circle was a bit of a challenge – peeking inside, he saw that his use of magic that day had been heavy, and he was just under half his core in strength. Damn. Well, needs must – he was almost there, anyway. He forced the magic through, focusing hard on a mental picture of Harriett’s bag. It took a minute, or so, but the bag reappeared within his circle, and he smiled in relief. He pulled the bag towards him, opening it – yes, this was her bag, there was a potions kit in there, several pockets he couldn’t open, and some essays labelled _Rigel Black_.

The chalk diagram, as he expected, had disappeared, and the residue of his spell would be covered among the other runic circles usual in the Ancient Runes class. Good. Nothing could be pinned on him here. He checked to make sure his ward was still intact, then made his way, whisper-soft, to the Hospital Wing.

He sat down, cross-legged, on the other side of the Hospital Wing doors, Harriett’s bag by his side. Pulling out his pocket watch, it was half past eight – curfew was not until ten, and he hoped the Weasleys would come through after that, after hours, because he needed a bit of time for his core to recover, and also to investigate the ward Dumbledore had set up. He half-closed his eyes, feeling his way towards the magic, feeling out the wards – they were complex, the most complicated he had seen thus far, and even he had difficulty finding the knot holding the wards together. The heartbeat was there, finally, and he mentally inspected the knot. How many spells? Ten, fifteen? No, there were three alarm-spells, too, worked in as well – he would need to take those out, first, then the retaliatory spells. There were two confusion spells, a Befuddlement Charm and a Confundus, and a blindness spell. Dumbledore was a Light wizard, so there were also a few light hexes worked into the mix, but fortunately Aldon himself was Dark, so he could counter those easily. Then there were the explosion spells, then a heavy layer of lock spells – it looked like Dumbledore had worked in every lock-spell known, including a runic lock as well as a more traditional, charmed lock.

He studied it, carefully. There was no such thing as too much time spent examining this knot, because one mistake would throw his entire plan into jeopardy. He carefully identified and mentally marked the weak points of every spell, found the key rune for the runic spells, listed out the order in which he would need to break them. First, the alarm spells – all three at once, because tampering with any of them would set off the others. Then the ones affecting his senses, then the curses and hexes. Only at the end, the lock-spells – the runic one first, then the rest. He went through it, over and over again, looking for any hint of something he had missed.

He watched as, first, Angelina was discharged from the Hospital Wing, and then Madam Pomfrey left, locking the Wing doors for the night. That, though, was a simple _Colloportus_ spell, nothing as complex as the ward that Dumbledore had left, so he didn’t worry about it. He had broken enough of those spells anyway that he was confident he could carry at least _that_ part of it off well. Cedric was still in the Wing, he thought, but little could be done about that.

When he heard a distant crash from the direction of Gryffindor Tower, his promised diversion, he stood and waited five minutes before he began – he needed attention to be drawn in that direction, for the Aurors, hopefully, to be drawn in that direction before he could safely begin. Hopefully, regardless of Harriett’s House, they would be looking towards Gryffindor for any obvious escape attempt; she had a lot of friends in that House, who were _not_ associated with the SOW Party. With much luck, they would assume that her friends in Slytherin were too shocked and too aware of their own positions in the SOW Party, to do anything. Which, granted, they were probably right. Aldon didn’t see any of _her_ friends doing anything helpful.

He threw three lines of raw magic at the alarm spells, breaking them in the same instant, then he ran down the list of his ideal curse-breaking order. Four spells that would affect his senses out, then seven different curses, including three Light hexes, then five different lock-spells. To his almost-surprise, Madam Pomfrey’s _Colloportus_ spell was broken from within, and he opened the Hospital Wing doors to find Harriett ready to leave. He dropped his invisibility ward – he could reconstruct it later, and held Harriett’s bag out to her with a half-smile.

She tilted her head up at him, considering, before accepting it gratefully. “I assume I have you to thank for breaking the warding spell,” she said quietly. “Thank you.”

Aldon shrugged uncomfortably. “The twins only promised me an hour. They’re drawing everyone towards Gryffindor Tower – likely most of the towers. I have an invisibility ward prepared – I can get you to the main gates and manipulate the Hogwarts wards into letting you out.”

She studied him for a second. “No need. I’ll be fine from here.”

Before Aldon could object, she reached into her bag and pulled out, of all things – _an invisibility cloak_.

“My father _was_ a Marauder, remember?” she smiled wryly. “I know other passages out of the castle, ways that won’t engage the wards. You should go – build yourself an alibi. Aiding and abetting in my escape has to be illegal.”

Aldon nodded slowly, taking a deep breath. She was telling the truth about the other passages, and with an invisibility cloak, she _would_ likely be fine on her own. He fished his communication orb out from his pocket and gave it to her, gesturing at her earring. “Trade me. I don’t want them using the spells on the orb to track you. You’ll be able to contact me, if you need, but I won’t be able to do the same.”

She studied him cautiously, but traded without comment, and Aldon tucked the earring in his pocket. He wasn’t sure if they _could_ use the blood-link through the orbs to track her – if they did, he quite thought they would need to invent the tracking spells for it – but it was better to be safe. The earring was far safer, since the spells anchored on that side had already been broken, and the risk of discovery was well made up by the chance that she could contact him at need. He would have to hide it somewhere carefully, though, since it was the smoking gun for his involvement, but it was small enough – if he could tuck it away somewhere in his dorm or trunk without much trouble. As long as they couldn’t get a full search warrant for him, it would probably be fine. He had confidence he could avoid that much.

Harriett hesitated for a second, her unnaturally bright green eyes staring up at him. One could lose themselves in those eyes, Aldon thought, almost stunned despite himself. They were mesmerizing. “I just … one question, Aldon.”

“Ask.”

“Why?”

Aldon took a deep breath, looking her over, memorizing her, fixing this moment in his memory. Later, he would look back and realize that _this_ was the moment that everything had changed, that he walked away with his path irrevocably altered, but he didn’t know that yet. Harriett was, in her own way, beautiful – but Aldon was not attracted to her. Aldon was not in love with her.

What he felt for her was so much more than that.

“Harriett,” he started slowly, leaning over and whispering directly in her ear. “For every halfblood at Hogwarts, for every halfblood that hides who they are, what they are, all their abilities and stories that could reveal what they truly are, _you are our hope_. And I will _not_ let our hope be crushed. Now, go.”

Her eyes widened slightly, and Aldon knew that she had worked it out in an instant. Her mouth firmed in a grim line, and she nodded solemnly, before disappearing under her cloak. He felt, rather than heard, her cast a silencing spell on her feet, and as far as he could tell, she was gone.

He took his time casting his clumsy invisibility ward, forcing a few of the runes through with sheer will since he was nearly out of magic, and slipped back down into the Slytherin common room, into his dorms, without being caught, which was a minor miracle in and of itself. He took a risk, opening the common room door, since it was after curfew and he couldn’t expect anyone coming out anytime soon, but fortunately the few people remaining in the common room were mostly preoccupied with their own conversations. A few of them looked up at the door opening and closing, but their eyes slid over him without seeing him. A quick, forced, rune for forgetfulness later, before the oddity could fix itself in their minds, and it was fine. They wouldn’t remember, or not easily, anyway.

In his dorm, he took down his invisibility ward and saw with some relief that Ed was still passed out on his desk. He opened his trunk quietly, dropping the earring into the debris that lined the bottom. He would have a hard time finding it, later, but if the Aurors _did_ get a search warrant, perhaps it would go unnoticed if it was mixed in with obviously unimportant items.

He still had one more thing to do tonight. He would be questioned tomorrow, if only because he was the one who publicly announced Harriett’s identity. More likely, they would also question him on her escape; he was her strategist, he was suspicious, he was probably one of the only, if not _the_ only, student with the skills to break her out. At minimum, they would use _Priori Incantatem_ ; he wasn’t sure whether they would have enough for warrants, for truth-spells, Legilimency, or Veritaserum. All of those could be fought with Occlumency, which was unfortunately a skill he had never developed. So he would have to do this the hard way.

“ _Accio_ Firewhiskey,” he whispered, using his wand for the first time in hours, and even this spell was troublesome given how low his magical reserves were – but he had enough, and he didn’t need to use any more magic for at least the night, so that was fine. The bottle flew out of Ed’s wardrobe at him, and he caught it easily, letting a wry half-smile cross his face. He had known Ed was lying when he said they hadn’t had any, he just hadn’t gone looking. Ed thought he was developing some sort of alcohol problem. Ed was wrong, but arguing about it would have made him look like he did have an alcohol problem, so he hadn’t pushed it. Well, Ed wouldn’t be very impressed with his actions now, and for a brief instant Aldon regretted that Ed would probably be very angry at him when he woke. Still, needs must.

Alcohol had demonstrated effects on memory. If he drank enough, he should be able to make the past few hours fuzzy enough to lie under truth-spell. In theory.

He conjured up a glass and started with a double. 

XXX

He woke up in the Hospital Wing, with an absolutely horrific headache. And he wanted to throw up. He thought hard liquor wasn’t supposed to lead to hangovers, but that was clearly a lie. God, this was bloody awful. He never wanted to see Firewhiskey again. He rolled over to one side, sheltering his eyes from the sharp spears of light piercing his brain. A few deep breaths later, and he used his arms to pull himself upright. He had a visitor, and it wasn’t difficult to work out who that had to be. He pulled his legs up as well, tucking his head on top of them, and he hoped the piteous moan he let out was only in his head and not out loud.

“I want to hit you,” Ed said, from the chair beside him. Aldon turned to look at him. There were shadows under his eyes, which were dark, stony, harder than Aldon had seen them in a long time. At one time, Aldon would have flinched to see them – he had never borne Ed’s disapproval well. But, instead, this time, he felt nothing.

Ed wouldn’t understand. Ed had never understood, not really, what it was like to be a halfblood, what it was like to live a very carefully curated lie. Aldon’s lies had always been sheltered by his status, by the fact that no one dared question the wealthy, popular _Rosier Heir,_ but they were still lies, they were still secrets, they were still a perpetual source of fear. More than that, though, Ed couldn’t understand – by his marriage to Alice, Ed would join the oppressive system, whatever his personal beliefs. Ed would become noble, in time the Lord Selwyn, a member of the SOW Party in his own right.

And what would Aldon do? He didn’t know.

“You _hexed_ me, Aldon,” Ed stood, pacing an upset line beside his bed. Aldon watched him under hooded eyes. “You _hexed_ me, so you could, what, drink yourself to death? Do you know how frightening it was, to wake up and find you and most of an empty bottle of Ogden’s on the floor, passed out drunk? I realize that yesterday was _trying_ for you, but drowning your feelings in alcohol is not the answer. I’ve been silent on this for _years_ but no longer, Aldon. If I catch you with so much as a single glass of wine, or Firewhiskey, or even bloody Butterbeer, I _will_ tell your parents, and I _will_ have you put in St. Mungo’s for this, is that clear?”

Aldon half-smiled ruefully. After yesterday evening, he wasn’t sure he wanted to see anything alcoholic ever again. It was fuzzy, now – most of the evening felt like a dream – but he vaguely remembered pounding back shots with an urgency that could only have been borne from conviction. “Perfectly clear, Ed,” Aldon replied, his voice weaker than he thought possible. “Is there a bucket? I think I need to vomit.”

Ed Summoned one and shoved it into Aldon’s shaky hands with no ceremony, standing out of the way while Aldon promptly threw up. He also thought this wasn’t the first time he threw up in the last few hours, but then, he didn’t want to think on that.

“Mr. Rosier,” Madam Pomfrey bustled over, setting her hands on her hips sternly. “That was a very close call for you, young man. Had Mr. Rookwood not brought you to me when he did, you would very likely be at St. Mungo’s now for long-term treatment. In any case, I would _normally_ give you a hangover relief potion, but it seems that I haven’t any, and we are rather busy this morning, what with the Aurors questioning everyone, so you will simply need to wait for it to pass in its own time.”

Ah, Aldon realized, darkly satisfied as a few memories of last night began to trickle back to him, dreamlike and vague. Madam Pomfrey wasn’t going to give him a hangover relief potion because it would teach him a lesson, oh, and Harriett Potter had escaped so the castle was in an uproar.

“Now that you are awake, I will need to report it to the Aurors,” Madam Pomfrey continued, more delicately. “They were … most interested in talking to you.”

“I shall endeavour not to throw up on them, then,” Aldon replied, accepting a cloth from the matron to wipe his face and mouth. He reached for his wand and tried to cast the Aguamenti charm on the water goblet beside his bed. He focused hard, but his head hurt, and the necessary concentration just wasn’t coming. Finally, Ed took pity on him and did it for him.

“Thank you,” Aldon murmured, reaching for the goblet thankfully. He reviewed his memories from the last night – he still had them, but they were blurry, with an air of unreality to them. Just enough that he could convince himself that they were dreams. He sternly told himself they _were_ dreams. He wasn’t capable of all that. Wasn’t it just a _little_ improbable that he had managed to break a ward set by Dumbledore himself? He was not a powerful wizard, and to have done all of that without resorting to traditional wand magic was simply incredible. It had to have been a dream. Harriett may have escaped, but he had nothing to do with it. That was the truth, he told himself. It was all a dream. A dream. An absolutely ridiculous dream, but a dream nonetheless.

His core rang slightly, but it was uncertain – he was lying, but it was only a half-lie? Fine. That was about as good as he could expect – he could only hope it would be enough.

“Thank me by not doing this again,” Ed nodded sharply, sternly, apparently satisfied. For now, at least. “It’s nearly lunch. Do you want anything from the Great Hall?”

Aldon shook his head, making a face. The idea of food was not appealing, but then again, it would probably help his stomach settle and it would be better that Hospital Wing food, at least. “Maybe soup. Something light.”

Ed nodded again, though this one was a softer one, and disappeared. Aldon turned to his next problem: what would he would say to the Aurors? How close would he remain to the truth? Did he even remember the truth? His mind was fuzzy.

He sat and drank his water, dry-heaving a couple more times before the Aurors appeared. Dawlish and Shacklebolt, he recognized. Dawlish was the second-in-command to Auror Potter himself – this was a serious investigation. 

“Mr. Rosier,” Dawlish began, with a stern frown, his voice decidedly bad-tempered. “I am sure you know why we are here. I find it extremely suspect that, the evening of Miss Potter’s escape, you are hospitalized for drinking to excess.”

“Is it?” Aldon replied, tilting his head to one side, though it made his head pound. He suppressed the urge to dry-heave again. “As I’m sure you can understand, yesterday was … difficult.”

“Why was it so difficult, Mr. Rosier?” That was Shacklebolt – his voice was much more even, but Aldon didn’t trust him, either. The Shacklebolts were Light, formally declared Neutral, neither part of Dumbledore’s faction nor the SOW Party.

“I watched a friend be tortured, yesterday,” Aldon replied carefully, slowly. He spoke truth, a carefully invented truth that revealed nothing. “The games are … a challenge, for a strategist. Your player is your responsibility – you are their second set of eyes, you are their mind, their general. Your strategy can protect them, or it can put them in danger. You learn to … care for them. Watching a person under your responsibility suffer is not easy. Even if they are not who you expect them to be.”

It was realistic, believable.

“So you drank to excess,” Shacklebolt prodded. “This was your reaction.”

Aldon smiled wryly. He would throw himself on that dagger, he supposed. He wasn’t going to be repeating _this_ experience anytime soon, not if it would make his head pound quite like this. Ed would even corroborate it. “I have had … difficulty holding my alcohol. Ask Edmund – he is my closest friend. I have been drunk at nearly every public event over the last four years, I _regularly_ drink to excess. Alcohol … helps me cope. This is not overly out of character for me.”

There was a pause, as Shacklebolt made a note on a sheet of parchment.

“At every public event over the last four years? How are they difficult?”

Aldon shrugged uneasily, gingerly. He hadn’t expected that question. “I am the Rosier Heir. People’s expectations for me, the pressure, can be difficult. I am not what people expect; I enjoy theoretical work more than reasonable. I am, at my core, quite … _bookish_.”

He let the last word drop off in a whisper, as if he were embarrassed, ashamed of it, even if he was no such thing. It was not entirely satisfactory, but he hoped it was appropriately teenage and silly, enough that they didn’t ask more. Shacklebolt made another note but didn’t ask anything further.

“You knew who she was, though,” Dawlish said, his tone aggressive. “You identified her by name when she was on the battleground. You say she was not who you expected to be – who did you expect, if not her?”

Aldon raised an eyebrow, for all the world like Dawlish was a fool. “I expected her to be Rigel Black, of course. Are you alleging that I had knowledge of who she was before yesterday?”

“You called her by name.”

Aldon laughed softly, but stopped quickly because it made him feel sick. “A guess, nothing more. She looks quite a lot like Auror Potter, does she not? She has his nose, his facial structure, and the Potter mop is distinctive. And her eyes – even after the Split, Harriett Potter’s eyes were famous in Dark Society circles. “As green as a serpent’s scales,” it was said. She had that. And, as I said before, I am a theorist. Rigel Black was known to be a Parselmouth. Here is a question for you: which Families historically carry the Parselmouth gift?”

Dawlish scowled at him. “I have no time to play these games, Mr. Rosier.”

Aldon shrugged, more fluidly this time, though the movement sent another shot of pain through his head. “Fine. The only Family that still carries the gift in Wizarding Britain are the Potters. The Blacks _may_ have a strain, through a several times great-grandmother, but the Potters produce a Parselmouth roughly once a generation. Fleamont Potter was one; before him, Charlus Potter. They do not advertise it, since they are a historically Light family, and it is thought to be a Dark gift.”

“How would the _Potters_ have the Parselmouth gift?” Dawlish’s eyes were narrowed, skeptical. Aldon fought to keep the annoyance off his face and turned instead to Shacklebolt. The Shacklebolts were noble, a minor Book of Copper family. Dawlish wasn’t, though.

“Auror Shacklebolt,” Aldon said, purposely talking over Dawlish in a way he knew would irk the senior Auror. “You are noble. What title do the Potters hold, legally?”

Shacklebolt thought for a moment, then he nodded. “I had forgotten, truly. Dawlish, the Potters hold the Peverell title. The Peverells were the original Parselmouth family, from which the Slytherins and all others descended.”

Aldon smirked tiredly. It was a construction that, while completely invented, made sense.

Dawlish took a deep, calming, breath. “Fine. Mr. Rosier, where were you last night, after dinner?”

Aldon snorted, then regretted it instantly as another pain shot through his head. “As we discussed earlier in some detail, I was drinking to excess in my dormitory. It took some doing, I’ll have you know. I had to hex Ed, because he was watching me too closely. Stupid, yes, but why are you asking me this?”

The two Aurors exchanged a look. “Miss Potter escaped, last night. We suspect outside assistance.”

“Ah. I had not realized,” Aldon lied baldly, straight-faced. “As you can see, I have only come to within the last hour.”

There was a pause, and it was Shacklebolt, surprisingly, that made the request. Aldon assumed they thought it would be better treated, if he, as a noble, handled it. “I’m sure you understand, Mr. Rosier, but we will need to test your wand.”

“Have at it,” Aldon said, suppressing another dry-heave and handing it over. He saw the surprise on their faces and kept his own face carefully careless.

Shacklebolt was the one who took it, pressing his own wand-tip to his. “ _Priori Incantatem_ ,” he said, voice quiet, and Aldon watched as the spells emerged. His Summoning spell, for the Firewhiskey. A couple Aguamenti charms. A Disillusionment Charm, a notice-me-not charm, a Silencing charm. Then some Transfiguration spells, from his class on Friday.

“The Disillusionment and notice-me-not charms,” Shacklebolt inquired. “When was that?”

“Yesterday afternoon,” Aldon replied easily, feigning boredom. “I used it escorting Miss Potter to the Hospital Wing after she returned. To avoid attention. The Weasley twins can corroborate it.”

“That was _before_ you hexed your friend, Rookwood, isn’t that right?”

“Yes,” Aldon agreed, cursing himself inwardly. He had forgotten, they didn’t see a hex in the pattern. And he had gone so far out of his way to look up runes for that, too. “I used a Marauder product for that, though. The Sleeping Powder.” 

The Aurors exchanged another look; Shacklebolt seemed satisfied, ready to move on, but Dawlish was not. “Mr. Rosier, would you be willing to take Veritaserum?” 

“No,” Aldon replied, narrowing his eyes coolly. “I rather like my privacy, you see. Veritaserum is … intrusive.”

“Blood identity theft, aiding and abetting a fugitive, are serious crimes, Mr. Rosier.”

The Hospital Wing doors crashed open, and Aldon winced. A sharp pain lanced through his skull, and he failed at suppressing another dry-heave. He almost wished he had more to vomit, because at least it would have gone on Dawlish.

Percy Weasley, of all people, strode in. His robes were black, the sleeves much larger than fashionable, billowing in the air behind him, a barrister’s white tabs neat at his neck. He took a stance beside Aldon’s bed, crossing his arms, not bothering to look at him.

“Auror Dawlish,” he began, an icy smile on his face. “I just _know_ you are not attempting to coerce Mr. Rosier into giving his consent for Veritaserum questioning. You _know_ you need a full warrant for that.”

“Counsel,” Shacklebolt murmured, nodding in respect.

“Mr. Weasley,” Dawlish’s lips twisted. “Called to the bar only a few weeks ago, were you not?”

“That I was, Auror Dawlish,” Percy agreed easily enough. “But I’m afraid that still qualifies me to practice law in this jurisdiction. Now, Mr. Rosier has clearly declined your invitation to take Veritaserum, so unless you have any other questions, I do believe we’re finished here.”

“Just one more question, then,” Dawlish replied, his tone both annoyed and disgusted. “Mr. Rosier, at the beginning of the Tournament, you were linked to Miss Potter with a communication orb. Where is it?”

_Shit_. Aldon hadn’t thought of that, but of course they would ask. He tilted his head in thought, carefully looking down as he invented. “The orb? I’m not entirely sure … yesterday was a shock to me. I had it in the strategy room – I don’t remember afterwards. I may have left it there – Edmund can let you in to search it.”

Yes, that would work. It was a room both he and Harriett had access to, so if it disappeared from the strategy room, it was conceivable she would have gotten in and taken it with her when she escaped.

“The orbs are incredibly valuable, Mr. Rosier,” Dawlish’s expression was stern, his brow furrowed. “Are you in the habit of leaving valuable items willy-nilly?”

“What is the relevance of this question, Auror Dawlish?” Percy interrupted, from Aldon’s other side. “The fact that Mr. Rosier may be careless with his items seems to have nothing to do with anything.”

Aldon half-smiled at the barrister; the intercession wasn’t necessary, but it was appreciated. He had far more entertaining ways of dealing with this question. “Auror Dawlish,” he drawled in tones of supreme condescension. “I am the _Rosier Heir_. If I recall last year’s _Prophet_ wealth rankings correctly, my family is ranked eleventh in asset wealth, but first in income generation. I can replace anything I might lose without any trouble whatsoever. As for the orb, I have said that yesterday was quite difficult for me, and in any case I probably left it in a room accessible only by the Triwizard team members. I would hardly call that careless.”

There was a pregnant pause, as Dawlish seemed to be at a furious loss for words, until Percy cleared his throat pointedly.

“No further questions,” Shacklebolt said, resting on hand on his partner’s arm to pull him away. “We will be following up on Mr. Rosier’s evidence, and I expect that we’ll have further questions at a later time.”

“Enjoy,” Aldon replied, though the tone of his voice suggested they do otherwise. Instead, he reached for his wand back and attempted to conjure himself a second glass of water. It wasn’t any more successful this time that it was last time. Damn it, he was supposed to be _good_ at Charms.

Percy took the goblet from him and did it for him, no sign of pity on his face. Aldon had never met him formally, though he had been Head Boy last year.

“I had better follow them, see who they’re questioning next. Dawlish has a habit of failing to inform people of their rights before coercing them into agreeing to take Veritaserum or submitting to Legilimency – they need your consent, or a warrant for that,” he said with a sigh, shaking his head. “If they have any further questions, call for me.”

Aldon nodded, half-smiling in agreement and mostly in relief, and settled back on his bed. He clapped his pillow over his face, blocking out all light, to wait out the rest of his hangover. 

XXX

Aldon was released from the Hospital Wing on Monday morning, and went through his classes in something like a stupor. It was only NEWT preparation, now, but Aldon couldn’t really bring himself to care. He went through the motions, practicing spells and reviewing his textbooks, with Ed’s stern eye on him, but somehow, he had no more fight left in him.

Where did one go from here? Harriett had made it away, in the scandal of the century. The _Daily Prophet_ covered the search for her in exhaustive detail, though the events of the Triwizard Tournament itself, the rise of an apparent power to rival Lord Riddle, were barely mentioned. Instead, they spent several days rehashing her accomplishments as Rigel Black, marvelling that a halfblood could have ever been capable of such things. There were letters to the editor, many expressing outright disbelief, and the opinion that _someone_ must have known or been helping her. A precious few defended her, holding her as an example of what halfbloods were capable of if properly trained, but for the most part Harriett Potter was deemed the exception that proved the rule, the unnatural surprise shocking in its sheer novelty.

In any case, Aldon barely skimmed the _Prophet_ , just enough to know that Harriett had not been captured, that she was still gloriously, thankfully, missing. A few days after her escape, the Prophet published what Aldon suspected was a somewhat doctored statement from the Lord and Lady Potter, pleading for anyone with knowledge of their daughter’s whereabouts to come forward.

The Aurors left Hogwarts on Wednesday – it was clear, by then, that Harriett had made it away, and that Dumbledore would brook no further intrusion. They had questioned most of Harriett’s friends, including Aldon a second time, and the entire Triwizard team, but without enough evidence to formally charge anyone and Percy Weasley’s continued, stubborn, presence, they were unable to resort to further measures for information. Aldon was almost surprised that no one on the Triwizard team had contradicted his testimony, that Aldon may have left his orb in the room – most of them simply said they didn’t recall. Aldon’s orb was his responsibility, and Ron outright admitted that he routinely left his communication orb in the strategy room, so it wasn’t unusual. Bones said she might have seen it in the room after he left, but she wasn’t entirely sure. Either way, it wasn’t there anymore – Alex had let them in to check and watched them the entire time they were there.

Ultimately, Dawlish was forced to leave Hogwarts in a state of supreme upset, though since Lord Potter had been forced to recuse himself from the investigation entirely, Aldon thought Dawlish was still doing quite well for himself. He took the time, then, when Ed was outside for Care of Magical Creatures, to dig out the earring from the bottom of his trunk, carved an invisibility rune on it, and fixed it on his ear. He didn’t really expect Harriett to reach out to him, but it was a little comforting to wear it, nonetheless.

On Wednesday, too, Aldon was called into Dumbledore’s office with Alex, to make another communication orb. The final Triwizard Tournament game would still be played that weekend, with Alex taking Harriett’s place. Alex doubled down on the team, who seemed to have lost their enthusiasm entirely, bullying Aldon and Angelina and Cedric out every day to practice with a combination of pleas, threats, and sheer persistence. Aldon went, because it was easier than arguing, and he wasn’t sure what else he was supposed to do, anyway. His whole life seemed to have been permeated with a cold, numb sense of emptiness, a lack of feeling that was in so many ways worse than sadness or anger or grief.

Ed was worried about him, Aldon knew. Ed was so rarely angry, but when he was, he tended to get over it quickly, once he had said his piece. Aldon had no doubt that Ed meant his threats, but he had little interest in much of anything, anymore. Harriett lived, and that meant that hope lived, but where did that leave him? Where did _he_ go from here?

He was starting to have nightmares, waking up midway through the nights in a cold sweat, nightmares where Harriett hadn’t survived, where she had died lashed to that tombstone. Some of the dreams were bloody – some just involved a flash of green light and his own terror. Some of them were back at Hogwarts, where she was charged and dragged away – some involved cold trials, Dementors. Some had nothing to do with Harriett at all – some involved him as the Lord Rosier, Head of the Rosier Investment Trust. Some involved him at the right hand of Lord Riddle, sponsoring SOW Party Galas of his own, a properly pureblood wife, nameless and faceless, beside him. All of them involved a deep-seated fear of discovery, of the world learning that he was not a pureblood, so intense that he woke with his heart pounding and his body frozen in terror on his bed. He wasn’t sleeping well, and suspected that Ed was beginning to dose him with sleeping powder or some such. And, somehow, he didn’t care about that, either. His dreams were full of feeling, intense terror and sadness and rage, and his waking days were filled with nothingness.

They won the match with the National Magic School of China on Sunday. Aldon had no idea how. He remembered going into the strategy room, remembered setting up his communication link to Alex, in the field. This orb was quite different than the dark blue one he now wore, invisible, on his left ear – this one was a light pale blue, a mix of his own royal blue and Alex’s blue-tinged white. But Alex didn’t need any guidance, so Aldon barely used it. Rather, Alex entered the battleground with, apparently, one sole focus: to find the NMSC fencer, Li Xiao Lang, and test his skills. Alex hadn’t been lying when he said that he was a master of the blade, but that was all Aldon remembered of the match – the clashing of blades, flashing in the sun. Aldon skipped the celebration, that night, which was by all accounts rather subdued. He wasn’t hungry anyway.

There was a small piece on it in the Monday _Daily Prophet_ , but it didn’t even make front page news, courtesy of an interview provided by Arcturus Rigel Black. It had clearly been given a week earlier, in an American paper, but it had taken time to cross the pond. It was far more explosive than the winning of a mere school tournament.

The front page was dominated by a full colour spread of Arcturus himself, in dark robes trimmed in silver. There was no denying who he was – he simply looked far too much like Sirius Black, his face sharp and angular and extremely handsome. He was standing in the photo, leaning casually against a desk, his body turned slightly off centre from the camera, showing off the fine detailing of his robes. His hair was tamer than Harriett’s was, casually swept away from his face, and he wore a roguish smile. He was taller, too, almost lanky in build, and he threw casual winks off the front page. It was a carefully crafted image – one that marked him, conclusively, as the Black Heir. He spotted several girls across the Great Hall breathlessly staring at the image and turned in disgust to reading the article. He didn’t recognize the reporter’s name – an American, then.

 

_Arcturus Rigel Black is a regal, attractive youth, and he joined this reporter in a wizarding coffee shop in Charleston, South Carolina._

_“You will have to excuse my cousin and I,” he said, a laugh in his eyes, and ordered coffee. “You see, my cousin Harry wanted to study Potions under the greatest Potions Master in this century. As for me, well, I wanted to study Healing at the best Healing school in the western hemisphere. So, here I am.”_

_I asked him for further clarification, and a shadow passed over his face. He was silent, for a moment, before he explained.  “My mother passed away of an incurable illness when I was young,” he said shortly, finally, but he let a small smile slip through. “I want to study infectious diseases and incurable diseases – I have always wanted to. Hogwarts is an excellent school, but their Healing program is extremely limited, and I would have needed to attend extra schooling afterwards. And Harry has admired Master Snape since we were children. She is something of a potions prodigy, and all she has ever wanted is her Potions mastery. So, we switched places.”_

_I asked him about Britain, about the laws they had broken when they made the switch. He was silent, again, for a few minutes, sipping at his coffee. I didn’t dare interrupt his thinking._

_“To be fair, I don’t think we knew what we were getting into when we started,” he said finally. “It helped that we looked very similar to begin with, and that we were around the same size, which is what gave us the idea in the first place. We were eleven, you have to understand. We knew it was risky, sure, but the risk has always been for her and not for me. I’m a pureblood – and not only that, I’m the heir to the House of Black. If we were caught, I always knew that I could just have my schooling records changed to reflect my educational history, and aiding and abetting blood identity theft doesn’t have the same criminal consequences. I would pay a hefty fine, but it’s a fine that I and my family can afford to pay. And I, of course, am here in America, ready to claim blood sanctuary if I needed it._

_“The risk was always for her – we did know, intellectually, that if we were caught she would be in line for the Dementor’s Kiss. That is the punishment, you know, for blood identity theft. She was willing to take that risk – and I was selfish enough to indulge her in it. Honestly, I’m not sure I expected to get this far, even though, as time passed, it became obvious that we had to hide more and more things from the people we loved.”_

_I nodded, and turned instead to how, exactly, they were able to pull of this switch for so many years._

_“Well, as I mentioned, we always looked very similar as children. The first year, we just both cut our hair and went to school as normal. She had it harder, I think, having to hide her sex from everyone, whereas I just said my parents made a mistake, that I was a boy named Harry Potter. In second year, Harry came up with a modification of the Polyjuice Potion to make it last for about a year at a time. She also came up with the spell to blend our features so that we would continue to look alike, though of course we look nothing alike, now. Third year is when it became easier, at least for me.”_

_He winked, and in a blink of an eye, his hair was blonde, his nose upturned like a pig’s snout. Another second later, and the change was gone. “Metamorphagi run in my family, but as for Harry, she kept with the modified Polyjuice Potion.”_

_No one has ever modified the Polyjuice Potion to last more than an hour, and I tell him so. He shrugged, a fluid motion, nonchalant. “You would have to ask Harry the details of that,” he replied. “I am not a potioneer, I don’t know.”_

_I asked him about the blending spell, and he didn’t know the answer to that, either. So instead, I turned to the question everyone is burning to hear: What now? Where is Harry now?_

_He shifted thoughtfully in his chair. “Well, I don’t know where Harry is, and to be honest, since I intend on this hitting the news, I wouldn’t tell you even if I did know.”_

There was little else to the article, and the uncertain, inconclusive way it ended made Aldon suspect it had been heavily doctored. Had he found the original article, he was convinced that there would have been quite a bit more detail. And bragging about Harriett’s accomplishments, or some other such thing. Arcturus – _Archie_ – had been too constructed in his appearance for anything else. This was a carefully marketed image, designed to protect Harriett as much as he could from America.

He remembered Arcturus at the Gala, not even six months ago, the small flashes he had seen. Arcturus cared about Harriett – enough to lie for her, enough to protect her with his name from across the sea. He _liked_ Arcturus, or he thought he could. Maybe.

Two days later, the _Daily Prophet_ ran a short interview with Malfoy and Pansy. It, too, was carefully curated in its own way, and he skimmed over it without much interest. They hadn’t known anything, of course. Rigel Black was their dearest friend, and no matter who he turned out to be, they still loved him. Her. They worried for her. He wished he had heard them give the interview – then he might know how true it was.

Wherever Harriett was, though, she read it. She reached out to him, a few days later. He was in a study room with Ed, his Transfigurations textbook in front of him, though he had no idea what exactly he was reading. The book was open, but the words were all blurring together on the page. He was tired.

“Aldon? Are you there?” Harriett’s voice came through, clear on the communication link. She sighed in frustration. “You can’t reply. I suppose I’ll try again later, a few more times, and maybe – hopefully? – you’ll hear me. I saw the article. Tell Draco and Pansy I’m fine, and ask them to forgive me, please – for lying, for not saying goodbye, for everything. That’s all. Thanks.”

Aldon snorted softly, drawing Ed’s attention, but he shook his head tiredly and turned back to his Transfigurations textbook. He was not a messenger pigeon. Another couple of hours, and perhaps Ed would want to go to sleep.  Then Aldon could lie in bed, staring at the canopy, waiting for a troubled sleep that he would wake from, sweating and panting, a few hours later. Then he would go through tomorrow, feeling the same sort of lost listlessness, and the day after, and the day after, until, he supposed, it stopped. Until it just felt normal, because he had forgotten anything else.

It was three hours of studying, tonight, or in Aldon’s case, of staring at his Transfigurations textbook without any idea of what he was reading. He barely felt the time pass – it felt as though he looked down, turning pages half-heartedly every now and then, and the next thing he knew, it was eleven-thirty at night. Ed had cast him worried glances, a few times, but he ignored them. Once or twice, it seemed like Ed wanted to say something, but thought better of it, often when Aldon turned a page of his textbook pointedly. When Ed was finally finished for the night, Aldon packed his books as his friend did, and followed him out of the study room.

The common room was empty, that time of the night, save for the small circle of fourth-years in the corner: Pansy, Malfoy, Nott, Zabini, Bulstrode. They were often huddled together, there, now – some of the other fourth-years, particularly Davis and Greengrass, were vocal in their disapproval of Harriett’s ruse, and loudly opined that they always knew something was wrong. A few times, Aldon thought Malfoy had tried to defend Harriett, but there was little he could say; Harriett _had_ committed blood identity theft to come to Hogwarts. She _was_ a halfblood, even if she was a powerful and skilled one. What defense was there? So, instead, they huddled together, keeping to themselves, weathering the storm.

Aldon made to follow Ed to the seventh-year dorms, but he stopped, looking at that lonely cluster of fourth-years. Harriett’s friends, the people she had chosen to befriend, the people who had truly had her, as Rigel Black, in their lives. They meant something to her – he had watched her often enough over the past four years to know how much Harriett cared about them. And they, in turn, cared for her – in their own bumbling and ignorant way, yes, but they cared.

He didn’t want to do this, but it meant something to Harriett, so he blew out an impatient, annoyed breath, pursed his lips and walked over to their table, before he could decide to do otherwise. He stood there until Pansy looked up, tilting her head in question.

“Harriett is fine,” he said brusquely, though his voice was quiet. “She sent me a message. She … asks for your forgiveness.”

There was a round of whispers, exclamations. “Rigel’s fine!” he heard, from more than one of them, and he saw Pansy put her hand to her chest with a sigh of relief.

“Thank you, Aldon,” she said, her blue eyes wide, sweet, and shining softly. It was a carefully cultivated look, but a half-lie. The fact that it was only a half-lie told him that she _was_ thankful for the information, but there was something else to it. It wasn’t pure thankfulness – Pansy had always lied, Aldon realized, half-lies, lies of omission, white lies. He had always attributed it to her kind nature, but perhaps there was more to it. He should have paid more attention to those lies, before, but it made no difference now.

“Rigel sent _you_ a message?” Malfoy said, staring at him with narrowed eyes. “Why not us?”

And of course, Malfoy would need to intercede with something like that. Aldon turned away, curling his lip in exhausted disgust. “If you were her friends, you should at least have the decency to call her by her name. It’s _Harriett_.”

He didn’t wait for a response, instead marking a straight line towards the seventh-year dorms. 

XXX

It was a week later, on the eve of Aldon’s first NEWT exam, in Ward Construction, that Alex found him, sequestered in the smallest study room in the Slytherin common room. It was a little surprising to see him; Alex had never come down to the Slytherin common room by himself, before. The password was more difficult than the ridiculous Ravenclaw riddle knocker, and Ravenclaw Tower had more study and experimentation rooms anyway. Aldon had always gone to Alex, before. He wondered vaguely how the Ravenclaw had gotten in.

Then again, he supposed, people didn’t say no to Alex, these days – apparently his prowess with a combined sword and wand was simultaneously incredibly impressive and somewhat terrifying. All he probably had to do was glower at someone coming into or out of the Slytherin common room, demand to see Aldon, and there was that.

Alex threw a Muffliato spell at the door and looked at Aldon expectantly. Aldon sighed, reaching for his wand to put up a basic privacy ward – nothing too complex, but Aldon suspected that his idea of a “complex ward” now differed from most of his classmates’. There were only five spells in this knot, but he recalled vaguely that the NEWT in Ward Construction only required integration of three spells.

“Are we discussing secrets now, Alex?” he asked. He tried to drum up some of his usual curiosity, his usual light and interested musical tone, but instead his voice simply fell flat.

“No, I just didn’t want to have to watch my speech,” Alex half-lied, leaning forward, resting his arms on the table, his blue eyes bright. “Forcing myself to speak in short sentences is tiring. Rookwood is worried about you.”

“I know. He has nothing to worry about, though,” Aldon replied. He didn’t really need to study for Ward Construction. He _needed_ to study his Transfigurations and his Potions, but he couldn’t really bring himself to care all that much about them. He didn’t like those subjects anyway. Why did he need NEWTs in them?

“Doesn’t he? He says you aren’t sleeping, that you’re not yourself.” Alex examined Aldon closely – from the mirror, Aldon knew he didn’t look like himself. He dressed himself automatically, these days, he didn’t take the usual care with his hair or his nails. “You don’t look well, and you smell tired.”

“How does one smell tired?” Aldon wrinkled his nose at him. His appearance could be attributed to exam stress, he thought.

Alex shrugged. “I can’t explain it. You just do. Rookwood says you haven’t been the same since the night Harriett Potter escaped. More withdrawn, quieter than usual, lacking in spirit. He’s right. Do you want to talk about it?”

“No.”

Alex raised an eyebrow. “I think you _need_ to talk about it – if not with him, then perhaps another halfblood.” He quirked a smile, and Aldon tilted his head to one side. It was the first time they openly discussed their shared blood status. “Though my situation is not precisely the same. My mother is a witch, Madeline Willoughby – my father dhampir, which is, legally speaking, a non-wizard part-human. Whether that counted for the purposes of making me a pureblood was never really decided, but most consider me a halfblood.”

Aldon thought about it for a moment, before he replied. “I’m a bastard. My father and a Muggleborn witch at the Rosier Investment Trust.” He didn’t need to be specific.

"I had guessed something of the sort,” Alex nodded thoughtfully. “You carry too many of the Rosier traits to be anything else, if you are a Truth-speaker. So – I assume that Harriett Potter’s identity was what you were concealing?”

Aldon nodded, tired.

“And you got through the blood oath because Rigel Black and Harriett Potter are the same person, and our new resident terrorist was targeting Rigel Black as Harriett Potter, and not as Arcturus Rigel Black,” Alex reasoned, thinking it through. “Risky.”

Aldon forced a small laugh. It didn’t even sound real – it was hard, caustic, somewhere on the line of amusement and sadness. “Would you really have killed me, Alex?”

“I’d rather not think on that,” Alex replied bluntly, his face turning serious. “I know Rookwood spoke to you about the little he knows of the Order. As he said … our codes of honour are strict, implacable. I love them, I have pledged my life to them and it was the proudest moment of my life to do so, but they are … demanding.”

Aldon leaned back in his chair, a distant sort of interest stirring through his numbness. Clearly Alex wouldn’t be leaving anytime soon. Aldon thought for a moment, tiny bubbles of true curiosity welling up through the empty feeling that had become his life. “What are the codes?”

Alex smiled briefly, a flash of pride and light. His voice was quiet in reverence. “In honour of the gifts given me, in honour of those who passed before me, in honour of those who sacrificed for me, I, Aleksandr Willoughby Dragić, swear that I will protect those weaker than me, to live in a way that honours my people and my gods. I will not ignore a cry for help, whether it be from the wealthy, the poor, the young, the old, men, women, the magical or the mundane. Evil will call me, but I will not answer. I will be bound by my honour and my word, and I will act in such a way that when it comes time for my ultimate sacrifice, I will not be afraid but will walk into the jaws of death with a light heart, knowing that I have lived well.”

He paused, slightly, an almost embarrassed smile on his face as he laughed. “For context, my people are heavily hunted by our vampire forebears. No one knows how long we live naturally – our deaths come to us in battle. Vampires first attempted to kill me when I was four, when my magic started to show – my father died defending my mother and I, then. That was when my mother decided, in consultation with the Order, to return to Wizarding Britain to raise me here most of the year, though I have always spent the summers with the Order. As both a wizard and a dhampir, I face assassination attempts often, at least once a year; I killed my first vampire at thirteen, and I swore my oaths at fifteen. I have spent the last two summers on the front lines in Bosnia. The Muggle war there has the vampires in a frenzy. I’ll be returning there after graduation, to do what I can to help.”

Aldon thought about his words for a moment, working out his own thoughts. It sounded sad, to him. It was as though Alex had been born on a path, forced onto a path, just like him, but Alex spoke of his life, his oaths, with such pride, such strength. “Aren’t you ever upset? You haven’t had a choice in any of it.”

Alex shook his head. “We always have a choice, Aldon. I could choose to stay here, if I wanted. I could choose to betray my oaths. I could choose to give in to the perpetual temptation and drink blood. Those choices would have consequences, but they are still choices. I choose not to do them because that is not who I want to be. I want to be known for my honour, my faith, my commitment to duty, not for being a coward, a traitor, a monster.”

“You sound like a Hufflepuff,” Aldon scoffed, but his heart wasn’t in it. He was thinking over Alex’s words, running them through his mind like pebbles in a stream.

“I almost was one,” Alex replied with a smile, leaning forward. “I have always found it surprising how everyone treats the Hufflepuffs – there is nothing in my mind more commendable than loyalty, than the willingness to work, than fulfilling your duty without the expectation of fame or glory, no matter how difficult or dangerous that might be. And their House produces just as many accomplished and talented witches and wizards as the others. But my mother was a Ravenclaw, and I did also inherit her intellectual curiosity, so the Hat waffled for four minutes and fifty seconds and ended up putting me in Ravenclaw. Who do you want to be, Aldon?”

Aldon dropped his gaze onto the wooden table, onto his notes for Ward Construction. Why was he even reviewing these? He learned more about Ward Construction through practical experience over the last five months than he had in the last two years of classes. Even without studying, he was on track for an O in the subject. He pushed his notes to one side.

He didn’t know what he wanted. He knew what he didn’t want – he didn’t want to be Lord Aldon Rosier, head of the Rosier Investment Trust. He didn’t want an arranged marriage, to someone of the right rank, the right wealth, the right blood status. He didn’t want to be a member of the SOW Party. He didn’t want to have to live a lie his whole life. He didn’t want to pretend to be a pureblood, but he didn’t want to lose his rights, his status, as a pureblood either. He didn’t want his word in a court of law to be worth three-quarters of a pureblood’s, he didn’t want to be limited by the hiring laws or be treated the way that he saw so many of his Housemates treat halfbloods, Muggleborns.

He wanted to be free. He wanted to be Aldon Rosier, magical theorist bar none. Aldon Rosier, Truth-speaker. Aldon Rosier, Curse-breaker. Aldon Rosier, Wardmaster. Aldon Rosier, halfblood. Aldon Rosier – someone strong enough, brave enough, to make mountains bend to his will, to carve a place for himself in a world that would not accept him as he was.

“I’m not…” Aldon started, then he stopped, and sighed heavily. He stared down at the wooden tabletop – black, unnaturally smooth, though it should have been worn by many students over the years. He suspected the study tables were reinforced with spellwork to keep them from wear and tear. “I’m not Harriett Potter, Alex. I’m not brave like her, I’m not powerful like her, I don’t have fire like her. I’m not her.”

“No, you’re Aldon Rosier – the best magical theorist Hogwarts has seen in two generations. You’re brave enough, powerful enough, passionate enough – or do you think just anyone could have broken Harriett out without being caught? The twins could have managed it, together, but they would have been found out on _Priori Incantatem_. Her own friends, in fourth-year, wouldn’t have had the knowledge or skill. I can’t think of anyone else who would have even dared to try. Whatever you’re thinking, Aldon…” Alex’s lips quirked in a small smile. “You’re enough.”

Aldon looked up, meeting Alex’s warm summer-blue eyes with his own fiery orange ones. Alex’s eyes were bright with belief. He took a few minutes to think, to phrase his next questions, which tumbled out of his mouth in an almost desperate stream. “But what if what I want isn’t _possible?_ What if, for what I want, I would need to turn the world upside down? What if what I want would turn most of the people I’ve ever known against me?”

Alex thought for a moment. “I’m not British,” Alex replied slowly, shrugging, though Aldon could feel the half-lie in his core. “I’m Serbian and dhampir, and our culture is, fundamentally, quite different. But we have a saying you might find relevant.”

“What is it?”

“It’s better to die on your feet than it is to live on your knees.” Alex frowned slightly. “The corollary is that it’s also better to live on your feet than it is to die on your knees, though I’ve never worked out how the two are any different.”

There was a long pause, as Aldon thought it over and Alex simply waited, looking quietly away, lost in his own thoughts.

Maybe Alex was right. Maybe Aldon did have a choice, even if it wasn’t a good one. He couldn’t see himself as the Lord Aldon Rosier, standing in the shoes of his father, and the alternative – disgrace, humiliation, a trial and conviction and possible Dementor’s Kiss – was no better.

But what if he succeeded?

For the first time, he let himself imagine. A world where he could be Aldon Rosier, Truth-Speaker, halfblood, magical theorist. A world where he could wait on marriage, where his marriage wasn’t arranged, where he wouldn’t need to worry about nobility and wealth and blood-purity. A world where he could make his own status, on the strength of his own skills, his own abilities. A world where he could be free to be himself, to be _all_ of himself, without fear.

It was _intoxicating_.

“Thank you, Alex,” Aldon said finally, looking up, feeling, for the first time, a fire kindling in his breast, a warm sensation slowly burning away the numbness that had coated his past few weeks. He reached over, resting his hand on Alex’s arm, a brief gesture of true friendship. “But Ed is going to _kill_ you.”

Alex smirked, fangs flashing in amusement. “He can _try_.” 

XXX

After that conversation, Aldon threw himself into studying – not for Ward Construction, which was, after the Triwizard Tournament, quite possibly the easiest exam he had ever sat. Curse-breaking, too, came easily, and there was thankfully a break of two days in which he could frantically revise for his Transfigurations and Potions exams – unfortunately set on back to back days, too.

He was, remarkably, not as far behind in NEWT prep as he thought he was, so he wouldn’t be failing any subjects outright. He had been doing the homework, even if it wasn’t done well, and his strong magical theory background meant that most of the concepts for the theoretical portion came easily to him. He would have to count on the theory making up for his complete disaster on the practical portion. He spent the two days shut in one of the study rooms, re-making his study notes, and the written half of both exams went well.

The practical half, well, he didn’t manage to conjure the requested chair for Transfigurations, managing only a child-sized three-legged stool. In Potions, he was only three-quarters done his potion when time was called, and he was forced to step away from his cauldron while the invigilators came around to bottle their samples and label them. Still, hopefully it was enough for overall passes in the two subjects, and he had another two days before writing his final two NEWT exams. But he had always been strong in Charms and Ancient Runes, so after weekend spent revising those subjects, he was confident he had managed a strong performance in both.

Afterwards, although his exams were over, he still went to the library with his classmates, the sorry sods who weren’t yet done their exams, and he kept studying – pulling books, this time, from the History, the International Studies sections. He read, and he thought, and he didn’t make any notes. He ordered a book on Occlumency, too, from Flourish and Blotts, because if he was going to do this, Occlumency was a skill he would need to learn.

He made decisions, carefully lining up the key persons and factors he would need on side for his plans to work. As disturbing as it was, the potential terrorist threat posed by Lord Voldemort was also an opportunity for change, if only he could convince people to change. So was Harriett’s ruse – especially the sheer publicity of it. Aldon stood, teetering, at the edge of a moment, maybe even the _ideal_ moment, for the kind of fire he was thinking of sparking.

In the meantime, in the Library, in the common room, in the Great Hall, he _listened_. Harriett’s scandal, still lighting up the _Daily Prophet_ every few days with an update on the search, was, surprisingly, useful. People talked about it, about her – and from the way they talked about it, about her, Aldon was able to sort them into the kinds of people who would support her, or not, and mark them by class and by political affiliation: noble, non-noble, Dumbledore’s Light faction, SOW Party, Neutral. He was most interested in the people that expressed open support for Harriett, but who were non-noble or politically Neutral.

Among the Gryffindors, the Weasleys supported Harriett, and that meant more than half of the House did. Even if the Weasleys had little political power, being non-noble, Aldon realized that they were extraordinarily well-connected in the Light (even though, ironically, at least the twins and Ron were Neutral in their casting). The Prewetts, too, were supportive, but they were noble and openly declared for Dumbledore’s Light faction. The Longbottoms were formally Neutral, one of the few Wizengamot seats that didn’t belong to either the SOW Party or the Light faction, but it seemed as though they swayed towards the Light – they were noble, Book of Silver, Sacred Twenty-Eight, but they were not known for producing powerful witches and wizards, and they were poor by noble standards. McLaggen was formally Neutral, but he was loud in his disdain for Harriett Potter, and Aldon was fairly certain the incident in which he was transformed into a cow at the end of year Feast was somehow orchestrated by the twins.

By contrast, the most powerful and influential students in Slytherin were all from families affiliated with the SOW Party and, accordingly, most of the House leaned in that direction. Even so, Rigel Black had been _one of them_. Rigel Black had come to their parties, met their families, he had been well-liked and best friends with the two other most powerful Heirs in his year, Draco Malfoy and Pansy Parkinson. Both Pansy and Malfoy had, except for their limited interview in the _Prophet_ , been silent on the matter, but Aldon had no illusions about their ultimate allegiance. They would not sway from the SOW Party, and neither would most of his House. He only had one curious mental note beside the name _Blaise Zabini_ , because even if his mother was associated with the SOW Party, it was obvious to anyone who looked that he had a strong tie to Hannah Abbott, in Hufflepuff, whose family was decidedly not. The Zabinis were also not noble, and, in sharp contrast to his friends, Zabini himself seemed to regard the Harriett Potter scandal with some light amusement. There were others, he thought, but no one else as influential or vocal, given the political leanings of Slytherin House.

The Hufflepuffs were shockingly silent, and the more Aldon listened, the more he realized that Alex was right. There was nothing flighty about the Hufflepuffs – they were loyal, yes, they were hard workers, yes, but there was something more to it. They were _unnaturally_ silent on the topic, as if they had all come to some sort of decision to say nothing. Even the Ravenclaws, famously introspective and aloof, had more to say about the Harriett Potter scandal than the Hufflepuffs did. The Hufflepuffs were also largely non-noble, without a declared allegiance – the only Hufflepuff from a noble family that he could think of was Ernest MacMillan, and that family was formally declared Neutral but generally voted with the Light faction. If it were anyone else, if it were _Alex_ , Aldon would have said that they were lying in wait for … something. But it was the Hufflepuffs, so, without Alex’s remarks, he would never have thought of it. He smirked, when he realized it, and Cedric caught his eye, raising an eyebrow. The Hufflepuffs _were_ lying in wait – had been lying in wait for something for years, using the stereotype of them as bores, incompetents, and fuddy-duddies in their favour. Aldon had no idea, yet, what they were waiting for, but he resolved to find out.

Among the Ravenclaws, the Boots and Goldsteins, both non-noble, had expressed support for Harriett. The Turpins, on the contrary, had not – Lisa Turpin, indeed, had gotten into a loud debate with Padma Patil on the subject, which had to be broken up by Cho herself. Overall, the Ravenclaws seemed to be a mixed group, and he paid close attention to who, of them, might be the most valuable for him, who might be swayed away from either Dumbledore’s Light faction or the SOW Party. It was a long list, especially to maintain in his head, but he was not a Slytherin for nothing.

On the train ride home, he sorted his information, reorganizing his priorities, under the cover of reading his new Occlumency book. He and Ed had talked, lightly, of their plans for the summer – Ed was too relieved to see that Aldon was back to his usual self to watch him too closely, too preoccupied and excited for his upcoming nuptials to notice that Aldon’s familiarity was only surface-deep, to realize that his closest friend had, at his core, changed.

Ed’s wedding would take place in three days, then he and Alice would be off on a tour of the world for the remainder of the summer. They would start in France, moving through Europe, towards several dragon reservations in Eastern Europe, then south to Africa to see phoenixes and Swooping Evils in their natural glory, then east into Asia. Alice apparently wanted to see a Chinese Fireball reservation, among other magical creatures. Then it would be Australia, New Zealand, South America, then north through notoriously unfriendly America and Canada. Aldon smiled at Ed’s plans, privately postponing his plans for at least a few days – aside from the fact that Aldon, as best man, would be caught up in the wedding itself, he wanted Ed well out of Wizarding Britain before he started gathering his kindling, lighting his fires. No need to worry his oldest friend before anything had even happened, and when Ed asked about Aldon’s plans, Aldon lied with a light heart. He would probably join the Rosier Investment Trust in September, he shrugged, but he would be taking the summer to explore some other options, such as Mastery programs. It was vague, but then, Aldon’s summer plans usually _were_ vague, so Ed didn’t think much of it.

Alex dropped in, towards the end of the trip, already dressed in Muggle clothing – tight, entirely indecent black pants in a thick, rough material that Aldon didn’t recognize, a tight-fitting black cotton shirt without a collar, and a black leather coat, studded with metal bits Aldon couldn’t name. He wore a confident expression of combined anticipation, cheer and determination on his face. Aldon eyed his friend appreciatively – the clothes were, of course, completely inappropriate in Wizarding British society, but he also couldn’t deny how _good_ Alex looked. The black made his chestnut brown hair and summer-blue eyes stand out.

Alex caught his roving eye and smiled tightly, hiding his fangs. “I have a flight to Belgrade from Heathrow in a few hours – a Muggle flight. I have to get to the airport quickly, so …” He gestured to his clothes.

“No, not a problem,” Aldon coughed, standing quickly and offering his friend a bow – thirty degrees, the bow of equals, even if Alex wasn’t noble. It didn’t matter. Alex was his equal, in every way that mattered.

Alex snorted in reply, grabbing him and wrapping him in a firm, masculine, one-armed hug. “Surely we’re better friends than _bowing_ , Aldon,” he said. “Be safe, and keep your communication orb close. We’ll talk, when we can.”

“You as well,” Aldon replied, returning the embrace. “Be safe. Don’t let yourself be murdered. And I will.”

“I’ll do my best,” Alex flashed an open smile, and his fangs were visible for just a split-second, before the dhampir disappeared, no doubt to continue saying his goodbyes to the rest of his friends, his classmates. As far as Aldon knew, Alex had few friends, but he expected that Alex would be saying farewells to most of the Triwizard team.

“Be safe?” Ed asked, his eyebrow raised.

“A traditional dhampir farewell,” Aldon invented easily. It _could_ be true. “They lead dangerous lives.”

“Ah,” Ed replied, turning back to his parchment, outlining the tasks that still needed to be done for his wedding, then the pages about their planned three-month trip. And Aldon turned back to his book, back to his own planning.

He felt _alive_.

XXX

The _Daily Prophet_ front page the next day was stark. The picture showed a scene of chaos: Arcturus, in appearance shockingly like a younger Sirius Black, lanky and well-dressed, with his arms bound behind his back. A bushy-haired girl that Aldon recognized as the AIM spokesperson from the Tournament was beside him, a worried crease between her eyes, and Lord Sirius Black was captured in the frame as well, a stern but concerned expression on his face. There was a mob of students milling around behind him, all of them in Muggle clothing. Arcturus, too, and Lord Black, were dressed neatly in Muggle clothing, light, cotton shirts and trousers, and Arcturus had an unbuttoned, navy blue sweater over his clothes.

Even arrested, Arcturus stood proudly, with a regal expression and a small, determined smile on his lips.

 

_BLACK HEIR ARRESTED_

_In a dramatic scene at Terminal M, the wizarding airport servicing most of Western Europe, Arcturus Rigel Black was arrested by Aurors the minute he stepped off the student plane from America. Other students attempted to rush to his defense, only for the young Black Heir to order them to do nothing and stand aside. He went willingly with the Aurors, invoking his right to counsel._

_Mr. Black stands accused of aiding and abetting blood identity theft and of conspiracy to commit blood identity theft for his role in assisting his halfblood cousin, Harriett Euphemia Potter, in what is becoming known as the “Rigel Black scandal”. Miss Potter allegedly borrowed Mr. Black’s name and masqueraded as a boy and a pureblood to attend Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry._

_Mr. Black has already effectively admitted to committing both offences in an interview published in the Daily Prophet on May 8. He has, however, denied both charges, and has been released pending trial to house arrest at the Black family holdings at Grimmauld Place._

_Counsel for Mr. Black, Mr. Percy Weasley of the prominent defense firm, Bones Goldstein, made the following comments._

_“My client, Mr. Arcturus Rigel Black, categorically denies all charges and puts the prosecution to the strict proof thereof. We hope that the Court is able to see past the scandals that have occurred over the past several weeks and see to the truth of this matter.”_

That was interesting, Aldon considered, examining the picture carefully. He expected that the article was correct in its main points, and he didn’t think Percy Weasley was so foolish as to reveal the defense strategy now, if he even had the defense strategy planned this early on. It was _promising_ , too – clearly Arcturus had no intention of lying down for the Ministry to walk all over him. Him and Harriett, for that matter.

He set the newspaper down, because there were only two days before Ed’s wedding. There was no way that the Ministry would pull together a trial quickly, and in the meantime, at least he knew where Arcturus Rigel Black could be found. Aldon’s plans could wait, because Ed was getting _married_ , and whatever Aldon planned on doing, he would do right by Ed first. And once Ed was safely married and out of the country, well, then it would be different.

As best man, he had duties to attend to, including pulling together a wild bachelor party on short notice. He pulled a few connections in Diagon Alley, including booking out the large, private, back room of the wizarding pub whose loan he had negotiated so long ago, the _Chimaera_ , which offered extra-sweet Butterbeer and a wide range of cider. He wouldn’t be able to drink (somehow, the idea of alcohol still made him feel distinctly queasy), but there was no reason he couldn’t make _Ed_ drink, and he happily deputized Adrian and Lucian into rustling up all of Ed’s friends. When he dragged Ed to it, the next night, he was proud to see that, despite everything, Lucian and Adrian had managed to persuade most of the male half of Slytherin House over several years to attend. Even Malfoy was there, in a corner with an extremely excited Nott and a smirking Zabini. 

The party was, he thought, a resounding success, though Ed didn’t think so when Aldon bounded into his bedchamber well after dawn on the day of his wedding, pulling back the curtains and letting the bright lights shine onto his bed. He shoved a hangover relief potion into Ed’s hands with little ceremony as his friend rolled in his bed and moaned.

“Good morning,” he practically sang, smirking cheerfully.

“I want to hit you, Aldon,” Ed groaned, even as he struggled to get up.

Aldon shook his head, still smirking and gesturing for Ed to take his hangover cure. “To the contrary, you have only yourself to blame for this. You see, you were the one who proposed to Alesana Selwyn, and you were the one who drank six shots of Firewhiskey, four Butterbeers, and three ciders last night, and you’re the one who told me that if you ever caught _me_ with a drink in hand, you would report me to all and sundry and have me committed to St. Mungo’s, else I would likely be in the same state as you and therefore unable to be here right now to wake you.”

“If you don’t shut up, Aldon, I _will_ hit you,” Ed threatened half-heartedly, tossing back the hangover relief potion without further ado. Aldon knew he wouldn’t – Ed only said that when Aldon had done something he considered monumentally stupid, or when Aldon had annoyed him somehow. He never followed through.

“If you did, I would ruin your wedding pictures,” Aldon told him, instead, waiting for the hangover relief potion to kick in. It would only be a few minutes – Aldon had gotten the good stuff. “Come. Alice has been up since the crack of dawn, worrying about her robes and her makeup, while her parents worry over the décor. You need to eat, then dress – the ceremony is in three hours, then pictures in god knows how many places for god knows how many hours, then the reception.”

Ed grunted in response, waving Aldon out of his bedchamber. Aldon went, smirking, waiting outside for a minute while Ed got dressed. Aldon was already in his best man robes, of course – what Aldon had planned for tomorrow could wait until tomorrow. He had gotten the Rookwood servants to prepare Ed’s favourites for breakfast, because he really didn’t know how many places Alice had decided she wanted pictures at, other than “more than three”. He made sure Ed ate, that he didn’t have stains on his wedding robes, before grabbing his arm and turning on the spot to Apparate him to Selwyn House.

The ceremony was in the Selwyn ballroom, which had been specially cleaned and straightened for the event. Alice was, of course, stunning in her white wedding robes, and her long, dark hair had been curled and put half up for the day. Her makeup was heavy, emphasizing the dark blue eyes that Ed was so fond of, and Ed had only eyes for her. Aldon stood at his side, a small smile on his face, the traditional marriage bands in his pocket.

He didn’t hear the vows – they weren’t the old vows, these ones, but an adapted version of the modern ones. Alice had had a hand in crafting them, he thought, but it didn’t matter to him overmuch. He knew that Ed, in that moment, was nearly stunned at his good fortune in securing Alesana _Selwyn_ as a bride, and he knew that it was genuinely a happy moment for them both – happy because while it might have been arranged, they were genuinely pleased with each other, they did genuinely care for each other. Not all noble matches were so lucky. Most, indeed, were not.

He stood there, at Ed’s side, discreetly looking out at the crowd. There were the Selwyns, of course, and the Rookwoods, and because Aldon was there, the Rosiers. The Malfoys were there, brilliant blonde hair standing out in the crowd, seated beside the Parkinsons. The Lestranges were there, but without Caelum Lestrange. The Puceys were there, the Averys, the Notts, the Boles, the Burkes, the Carrows, the Travers. Lord Riddle, too, was there, standing at the back, a small smile on his face.

These were his people – these were the most powerful families in the SOW Party, and he could call nearly half of them family in some way. Aldon could have a place here, if he tried. He could stand in this powerful crowd, he could stand beside Ed always, he could stand with the Malfoys, the Parkinsons, the Selwyns his whole life. He could have this life, able to pull on connections and rank in any circumstance, seated at the right hand to power, to political office. He could have this supremely comfortable life.

He would only need to lie. About who he was, about what he could do, about his gifts. He would only have to _accept_ , and it would all be his, and his life would stay the same comfortable existence he had lived his whole life. All it would require in payment was his willful ignorance, his integrity, his _truth_.

It was not a trade he was willing to make, anymore. 

XXX

The next day, despite the late night at the reception, held at the Rookwood residence, Aldon woke early. The fire of excitement was pounding through his veins, and it was all too easy for him to roll out of bed and go to his parlour.

His Hogwarts trunk was still there, and he carefully considered its contents, trying to decide what would be useful to keep with him, in case things went truly badly and he couldn’t return home. He didn’t think that was a likely possibility _today_ , but it could be in the future, and it would be easier if he simply kept the most important things with him. He wouldn’t need his school robes, obviously, but he would need a decent selection of his other robes and things. Not all of them, else it would raise suspicion. He took out his school books, except for certain, key, useful texts, then packed in all his more incriminating magical theory books from his parlour. He packed the Transfigured Quidditch figurines and his chess set – they were less important, but were still incriminating if anyone ever worked out what he had done, and before he was through he expected the parlour to be searched from top to bottom. He wished he could pack the ceiling, but instead he would simply have to recreate it wherever he landed. The communication link to Alex went in, and he still wore the dead earring linking him to Harriett. Finally, he threw in a bag of Galleons – a couple months of saved allowance, and he had his private account at Gringotts, with his last summer’s earnings, too. It wasn’t much, but in an emergency, it would hold him out for a short period of time, at least.

Once all the most incriminating things in his rooms were packed safely in his trunk, he went through his rooms twice more. Everything else was fine – everything else was, he thought, not incriminating enough to be important. The whole task had taken him the morning, with a brief break for something to eat. He was too nervous, too excited, though, and his croissant tasted like wood in his mouth. He chewed mechanically, running through his plans for the day one more time. Fortunately, his mother was away on business for his father, else she would have noticed and commented.

Aldon picked out his robes carefully. He had never been formally introduced to Lord Sirius Black, or Arcturus Rigel Black, for that matter, so first impressions would be important. Lord Black was not known for standing on ceremony, so nothing too formal, but at the same time, nothing too informal, either. In the end, he chose plain, navy blue robes in light linen, which seemed inoffensive enough. That complete, he checked his hair in the mirror, arranged in the artfully disheveled way he worked hard at, and pulled on neat, black, serviceable boots. He shrank his trunk and tucked it in his pocket.

The traditional Black family holdings were at 12 Grimmauld Place, in London. He had never been there, but it was possible to Apparate to places unseen with coordinates of some kind, and it was the work of a quarter hour to look up the coordinates on a magical map. He memorized them, fixed them in his mind, and Apparated.

The walls of 12 Grimmauld Place were, unsurprisingly, somewhat grim. Until Lord Sirius Black had ascended the title, the Blacks were among the most fanatical of pureblood supremacists. Somehow, Lord Black had been first Sorted into Gryffindor, then become the best friend of James Potter, the scion of the Potter House, traditionally Light. Lord Black had, it was rumoured, been disowned when he was sixteen, moving into Potter Place with the Potters, but inheritances in nobility were tied by blood. Thus, when the reigning Lord Black died, the title had still fallen on him. One generation later, even with the current Lord Black politically Light, even if he was officially Neutral, the Black family holdings still held a taint of dark solemnity.

Aldon approached the path through the front garden cautiously. He saw the wards at the entrance quiver at him, questioning, and he let them run over his magic curiously – Lord Black would know he was there, even if he didn’t know exactly who he was yet. The wards were unusually powerful, though, and well-designed to Aldon’s brief glance, so he guessed that Master Regulus Black, Wardmaster, had been at them at some point.

The wards let him pass, and he walked through the small garden, unnaturally warm and sunny. Looking up, he traced a few runes for magical sight in the air with a fingertip. Normally, he would use a wand, but since Lord Black knew he was there, he didn’t want to be seen drawing his wand before he even spoke to him. Whatever Lord Black did now, he was previously an Auror, and Aldon was not and had never been a particularly good fighter. It was better not to chance it. The runes worked, anyway, flashing as light and raw power, and Aldon spotted the sunlight amplification charms littered over the garden, turning it into a miniature greenhouse.

He heard a hiss, at his feet, and looked down to see an English garden snake flicker his tongue at his boots in question. It was bright, unnaturally green, and Aldon leaned down curiously. He was fairly certain garden snakes were supposed to be black, but no, this one was violently green.

“Liking our pets?” A cool voice drawled, and Aldon looked up to see Lord Sirius Black, in person, arms crossed, leaning casually in the doorway to 12 Grimmauld Place. Even older, he was still handsome, though he had a few lines of grey at his temples. His expression was cautious, critical, considering.

“I am, indeed,” Aldon replied quietly, adopting a tone of careful deference. “Forgive me. I had thought that English garden snakes were supposed to be black, but my knowledge of creatures has always been lacking.”

Lord Black smiled briefly, a sharp smile that held little amusement. “They are. I magicked them to be green. You’re the Rosier Heir, are you not? I heard about you at length from James, shortly after the SOW Party Gala this year. Your father made an offer for my niece.”

From his tone, Aldon could tell that they were not flattering comments. He could just imagine Lord Potter, venting at length on the matter in tones of strident disapproval – that really hadn’t been the wisest idea, in retrospect, though he couldn’t say he had regretted it. He coughed, embarrassed, looking away in a careful show of deference. “Aldon Rosier. I do hope I can explain, somewhat, Lord Black.” He swept a bow – forty-five degrees, the deepest bow he had ever made, the bow of a halfblood Heir to a pureblood Lord. “May I speak to Arcturus Rigel Black?”

When he straightened, he saw that Lord Black had raised an eyebrow in interest at the unusual bow, but he didn’t ask. Instead, he stepped back, opening the door from him. “I look forward to your explanation, then,” he said, his voice still cool. “I suppose we owe you that much, for Harry’s life. Come in – Archie and his friends are in the kitchen.”

“Thank you,” Aldon replied, following him into the house.

On the inside, the Grimmauld Place was much brighter, sunnier – the walls were done in bright, light greens and whites, somewhat smarting to Aldon’s eyes, but Lord Black led him into maze without noticing. The kitchen he led him to was somewhat more tasteful, with dark wood panelling matching the polished kitchen table, with accents of burgundy and the only touches of green being the emerald throws folded on the back of each chair. He waited by the doorway, motioning Aldon to forward into the room with a tilt of his head. Aldon knew, without asking, that Lord Black fully intended on staying in the doorway and listening. He didn’t care.

Aldon took a deep, calming breath. This was it, he thought, this was the first, hopeful, step onto a new path, into a new world.

Arcturus’ face so much like his father’s, though there was an openness, a lightness to his expression that must have come from his mother. Aldon looked him over, feeling nothing from his core – this was how Arcturus truly looked. He was nothing like Harriett Potter – he was obviously several inches taller than her, and his build was slender, willowy, rather than stocky. He was seated on at the table, a sheet of odd, lined paper in front of him, listening to something that a bushy-haired girl, the AIM spokesperson at the Tournament, seated beside him, said to him. On another side of the table sat a very pretty girl, dark hair piled on top of her head, with a box with many tiny holes in front of her, setting and re-setting a series of small items into it and moving them around in patterns Aldon couldn’t begin to understand. Strewn around her on the table were assorted other bits of metal, dark in colour, shining slightly in the light. Standing over her, with a careful eye on her work, was John Kowalski, the Natural Legilimens.

It was Kowalski who looked up and saw him first, meeting his eyes. Aldon felt the slight intrusion into his mind, and while he _might_ have been able to resist, or at least make it harder, he didn’t bother. He let the other boy into his mind, let him read whatever he wished. The other boy’s eyes widened slightly as he read, then he leaned over, tapping Arcturus on the shoulder, gesturing at him silently.

Arcturus – _Archie_ – looked at Aldon, steely grey eyes meeting fiery orange ones, and Aldon swept him a formal bow – forty-five degrees, again, the bow of a halfblood to a pureblood.

“My name is Aldon Rosier, and I am not a pureblood,” he announced, his voice strong with pride, with the strength of his convictions, with his own belief.  “I am here …"

He paused, taking in a deep breath, and steeled himself for the plunge.

“I am here to help you plan a revolution.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FIN. Yes, this chapter concludes Liar Liar, though Aldon's story (and revolution!) will continue in a later, as-of-yet unnamed fic. As always, thank you to my beta-reader, meek-bookworm (also the technology subject matter expert!), and to my other subject matter experts: JAL and SHL (the criminal law experts: especially SHL this time for helping me come up with wild prosecution overcharging and inventing offences that Harry obviously committed - yes, "detrimental reliance on blood-status" is a criminal offence for "being friends with a pureblood while pretending to be a pureblood"), JEM (my medical expert), badculture (my "what do teens actually talk about" & pop culture expert).
> 
> One of my favourite things about writing Liar Liar was that ultimately, even though I tried to make it a legitimate Aldon/Harry, Aldon never knew Harry well enough, and so it turned out that Aldon didn't really love Harry at all - really, he wanted to BE Harry. He admired her because she was everything he wished he could be (brave, strong, willing to take risks), and kudos to everyone who noticed the little clues I built in where Aldon has actually made Harry out to be something she isn't. He doesn't know her at all, but he thinks he does, and he sticks her on a pedestal, and imagines her to be everything that he needs her to be - a symbol of freedom. That's also why he insists on calling her Harriett, even when she explicitly tells him otherwise (twice? thrice?). Aldon is breaking free from a prison every bit as much as Caelum did in BtL.
> 
> As a character, I enjoyed writing Aldon because he's quite flawed in a way very intelligent people often are - he justifies things to himself without realizing it, he lies to himself ALL the time (see: alcoholism), he has blind spots the size of a small country, and once he fixates on an idea, e.g. "this person is like THIS" (see: his self-conception, Ed, Harry), he often can't get over it even when given evidence to the contrary. He's not a completely unreliable narrator, but not everything that he thinks or says is objectively true either.
> 
> Further kudos to anyone who noticed the Ed/Edmund distinction which I obsessively edited to make sure that Aldon called Ed "Ed" in his head and "Edmund" out loud except in very particular circumstances (ALL ONE OF YOU *goes off to cry*). I specifically wrote that in to signal the inequality that Aldon perceives in his relationship with Ed; because of the way their friendship started in canon (with Aldon chasing after Ed - see, saberlions flashback, his comments about how there is no such thing as trying too hard in friendship), I think Aldon has always sought, on some level, to be good enough for Ed to be friends with him. Fundamentally, he doesn't think their relationship is one of equals, even when Ed tells him otherwise.
> 
> Many of you know that I often have a musical inspiration for who my characters end up being - Caelum was "Breaking the Habit" by Linkin Park. Aldon has 2 inspirations, both by Rise Against: This is Letting Go and Wait for Me. Will leave it to you to determine why, though it should be pretty obvious.

**Author's Note:**

> By popular demand, now cross-posting from fanfiction.net!


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